


The Seal of Solomon

by tb_ll57



Series: Crow Rides A Pale Horse [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Orphanage, Aurors, Basilisk(s), Chamber of Secrets, Death Eaters, F/M, Gen, Ghosts, Hogwarts Second Year, Hogwarts Third Year, Horcruxes, M/M, Ministry of Magic, Order of the Phoenix - Freeform, Parseltongue, Sirius Goes Free, Sword of Gryffindor, The Knights of Jupiter, The Marauder's Map, The Sorting Hat, Tom Riddle's Diary, Werewolves, animagi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2018-09-25 04:09:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 188,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9802052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tb_ll57/pseuds/tb_ll57
Summary: The small black diary was a curious thing. The edges of the pages curled as if someone had thumbed them knowingly for years, but the yellowed pages were blank and untouched. Harry traced the faded gilt name embossed on the cover: TM Riddle.





	1. The Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which Significant Opportunities May Be Found In Times of Greatest Difficulty._

They didn't make much noise, containing their conversation to a few whispers and one creaking door with old whingy hinges, but it was enough to send Harry out of bed seeking the source.  He was in time to watch Sirius supporting Remus in a stagger down the chilly corridor, ending in a rush for the loo at the end.  Harry hugged his arms to his chest, shivering equally at the cold of the dim grey dawn and the sound of a stomach violently emptied.

'Sirius?' Harry dared, shuffling to the jamb of his bedroom door, toes curling on the seam of his rug.  'I could get a hot tea.'

'Thanks,' a strained low tone replied, and Harry darted out on bare feet for the stairs.

By the time he'd returned-- he wasn't allowed to perform magic during the summers, and had to heat the kettle in the Muggle fashion on the stove-- the worst was over, and Sirius was sitting on the edge of the old porcelain bath with Remus tucked between his knees, head resting on his thigh.  Remus freed a shaking hand from his bed quilt to reach for the tea, but Harry knew better than to trust his tenuous grip.  He held the mug by the handle and let Remus guide it without taking on the weight, but Remus drank no more than a swallow or two before he drooped wearily, translucent lids falling shut as if he couldn't stop them.  He was horribly pale, but for two burning spots of fever in his cheeks, and his skin was blisteringly hot.

'He'll be all right,' Sirius murmured, catching Harry's worried glance as he stroked damp hair from Remus's forehead.  'Truly.  It's only his potion makes him so ill-- damned poison.  What you doing up, anyway?'

'Couldn't sleep.'

'I'll be all right too, you know.'  Sirius smiled, but it was braced, not at all the easy grin of a man telling the whole truth.  'Nothing left to do but take the Veritaserum and testify.  Be out before lunch.'

'I know.' 

'Sure you do.'  Sirius sighed, and sipped from the tea before setting it aside on the sink.  'Come on.  Let's get Moony tucked into bed, and catch a few hours before we've got to be up and about.'

So there was nothing for it but to help Sirius carry Remus back to bed-- the bed Harry wasn't supposed to know they shared, that Remus always took care to avoid til after Harry's curfew.  It was a polite, if unnecessary, fiction; Harry had had the lecture on Health and Relations in Religion at Crowhill when he was nine, complete with coloured diagrams and videos about the horrible diseases one inevitably contracted through pre-marital relations.  It was Mr Thompkins' favourite time of year, a free-for-all excoriating Crowhill's crop of useless sinners-in-the-making.  It gave Harry great good cheer to consider that Mr Thompkins would be utterly appalled by two men-- two wizards-- sharing a bed and kissing and whatnought.  But there was no whatnoughting at the moment, only Remus lying ill and sweaty and trembly beneath the sheets, barely able to lift his head.  Twice already during the summer Remus had been this poorly, and though he did recover each time it filled Harry with a nameless anxiety.  The stock of potions at the bedside table in unlabelled, illicit bottles bought from anonymous Potioneers in unspeakable places only seemed to grow, never shrink.  Sirius coaxed Remus into downing one of them, leaving a rim of blue on Remus's bitten lips.

'All right, since you're up,' Sirius said.  'Fetch me that box?'

Harry obeyed, returning to the bed with a heavy package that had been brought, just yesterday, by owl.  The box was wrapped in thick brown paper and sealed with silk ribbon, which Sirius tossed aside casually along with the lid.  Nestled in tissue was a fine robe of midnight blue, lined in silvery satin.  Sirius heaved a big sigh as he dumped the box.

'Ancient and Noble,' he told Harry, sticking his arms into the sleeves and thrusting his head through the largest hole.  The robe settled crookedly on his shoulders and snagged on his night shirt, bunching up over the belly.  'I hate this kind of thing.'

'You look perfect,' Remus said, in a cracked whisper, and Sirius softened.  He bent to rub noses with Remus, and let Remus smooth his ruffed-up collar.  'Everything will be fine.  All you have to do is tell the truth.  This is your vindication, your justice.  You'll walk out of here Lord Black, restored to everything that should always have been yours.'

'Damned timing, though,' Sirius fretted.  'You think they planned it?'

'How could they?  Don't be paranoid.'

'It's not paranoid, those bastards are out to get me.  They've all got a vested interest in keeping Blacks out of the Wizengamot, and Black money in their pockets,' he added bitterly.

'Pads.'

'Rest.'  Sirius tucked the sheet tightly about Remus's shoulders, effectively trapping him in place, and pulled Harry onto the bed to subject him to the same treatment on the free side.  'Get some sleep, I'll wake everyone for breakfast.'

'You can't cook,' Harry protested, as Sirius wedged a pillow beneath his head.

'I'll wake everyone up to cook me breakfast then.'  Sirius gave him a gentle fist to the chin.  'No back-talking.'  He flicked a wand at the light, and it popped off, plunging them into darkness.  The sound of four paws padding away didn't surprise Harry overmuch, nor Sirius's abrupt departure.  He sighed.

'It's only nerves,' Remus whispered, from his left.

'I know.'

Remus wrestled weakly with the covers, finally turning onto his side.  His hand found Harry's shoulder in the dark, giving it a squeeze.  'I've been thinking.  We should do your school shopping as we're in London.  After the trial.  I know the full book list isn't out yet, but we can pick up the standard supplies.  Then when you have to go back, you'll have more time to spend with friends.'

'Okay.  That sounds nice.'

'Did I ever tell you... did I ever tell you about the time Lily testified before the Wizengamot?'

Remus's hand was so hot it burnt through the flannel of Harry's nightshirt.  'No,' he said, seeking out the pale gold reflection of Remus's eyes in the dark.  'Was she in trouble?'

'Probably never in her life.  No, she testified about promoting magical education for Muggleborn witches and wizards.  She was selected... selected out of a group of us, we all submitted essays.'  Remus went breathy and confused for a moment, his hand losing strength.  'She wanted to win so badly, your mum.  Competitive.  Even more than James sometimes.'

Harry fought dragging eyes to wait for more.  Though Sirius in particular was always full of stories about Harry's father James, it was rare anyone told him much about his mother.  Severus Snape had given Harry a story, which he dragged out over the course of nearly the entire summer of Potions tutoring, one or two sentences for every successful potion Harry produced.  As Harry's successes in that field were still erratic and unpredictable, the story had been a long time coming.  It was a rather thrilling tale, however, of an adventure had by the two of them, his mum and Snape, in the Forbidden Forest, seeking out the eggs of the Ashwinder rumoured to nest in certain clearings therein.  They'd been chased by centaurs, stumbled into a foaling of Thestrals, and freed an enchanted prince from stone with water from the Crystal Caves, who had promptly proposed to Lily, though she had politely declined, being only twelve and a thoroughly modern sort of woman who intended to marry for love if she must marry at all.

'I've been trying to replicate her final casting,' Remus said abruptly, just as Harry was drifting off to a vision of his mum in enchanted princess robes, her long ginger hair braided with diamonds.

Harry rolled his head to the side.  'Her final casting?'

'The last spell.  The one that saved your life, when Voldemort cast the Killing Curse on you.'

'I thought you already knew what it was.'

'I have guesses.  Theories.'  Remus squeezed Harry's shoulder gently, took back his hand to drag it across his face.  'Charms was never my best subject.  But if I knew how she'd done it--'

'It could be done again.  For everyone.'

Remus dashed that excitement with a soft shake of his head.  'Not if it's true it required Voldemort's blood.'

Harry had long since told Remus about the vision he'd had, when his Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor Quirrell had been possessed by the Dark Lord Voldemort, and had in turn been intent on possessing Harry.  For much of Harry's first year at Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he had shared dreams with the spirit inhabiting his professor, via a link of the minds that Harry still didn't quite understand, but which seemed to have been definitively undone by the spectacular manner of Professor Quirrell's death.  Harry didn't like to think of it-- he had been the one to kill Quirrell, if somewhat by accident.  Snape and Remus had been much of the summer trying to figure out why Harry's spells often went just a bit awry.  Sometimes he couldn't get them to work at all, though more often they worked in ways that defied explanation.  When Harry wanted something badly enough, he could make it happen without even properly casting a spell, without even bothering with Latin.

Remus seemed convinced Harry could do without a wand if he really tried, reasoning that since young children often cast accidental magic without wands, it was the height of emotion and desire that mattered, not the focus, and that modern training might in fact interfere with natural ability by confining the free mind to habits and patterns through the rote memorisation preferred for most spellwork.  So far, however, Harry had little luck with wandless magic.  At least on demand.  Early in the summer, after a particularly distressing nightmare, Harry had waked to find himself floating above his mattress, and his mattress floating above the bed frame, and bed frame floating above the floor, along with every other bit of furniture and decor in his bedroom.  He and all his possessions had gone crashing down the moment Harry realised he didn't usually sleep mid-air, and the subsequent clatter had aroused Remus's scholastic fervor.  Remus often had long discussions with Snape after Harry's tutoring sessions.  Sirius did not approve.

But this seemed a new direction.  Remus hadn't given up on pursuing Harry's crooked abilities, but pursuing Lily Potter's was a leftward dodge.  The events of Halloween night of 1981 were infamous: Voldemort had been in pursuit of Harry's parents, who had hidden themselves behind a special spell which required a Secret Keeper.  Unfortunately, they had trusted the wrong man to keep their Secret.  Peter Pettigrew, a childhood friend of James', had given the Secret to Voldemort.  In the dark of night, Voldemort had broken past the wards on the Potters' small cottage in Godric's Hollow, and killed first Harry's father, James, and then, after a vicious battle, Harry's mother, Lily.  That much was known by nearly everyone in the Wizarding World, and to many it had been known in far greater detail than Harry had, til he'd shared a vision of his mother's death from Voldemort's mind.

They had fought, yes, and his mother had, if briefly, held her own against the wizard so feared few had ever gone toe-to-toe with him.  But Lily was no match for the Dark Lord, and so she had turned to the only option available-- giving her last breath to protect her infant son.  Harry could remember her breathy shout-- _Diffindo! Accio blood!_ \-- her sobbing farewell as she'd pressed a bloody thumb to Harry's forehead, in the spot he now bore a lightning bolt-shaped scar.  She had fallen to the Killing Curse, and Voldemort had next turned his wand on Harry Potter, who had hardly been in a position to fight for his own life.  But when Voldemort cast the Killing Curse on Harry, Harry hadn't died.  Instead, the curse had rebounded.  It had struck the man who'd cast it, destroying his physical body, unanchoring his spirit, and what was left of Voldemort had fled, leaving two Potters dead and one improbably alive, orphaned, and alone.

'Then what's the good of figuring it out?' Harry wondered.  'If no-one else could use it to save themselves.'

'Knowledge is useful whether one uses it or not,' Remus murmured.  'That was the greatest spell ever cast, I think.  To take a life is terribly easy.  But to tie life to life and preserve it?  It wasn't chance, or a whim, or an accident.  At the very least, the world should know what she accomplished.'

'I like that,' Harry said.  'She'd be famous.  Instead of me for just living.'

'For what it's worth, I'm rather glad about your living, too,' Remus whispered, and this time put his arm over Harry's chest, squeezing him in a hug.  'Go to sleep, Harry.  We'll have a job between us in the morning, keeping our Padfoot calm and orderly.'

 

 

**

 

 

Harry had been to the Ministry of Magic before, but that trip had been relatively brief, away from the hustle and bustle of the main floors.  Courtroom 10 was an entirely different sort of quiet, a hush that seemed oppressively enforced by the presence of armed Aurors stationed at even intervals about the octagonal outer edge of the chamber.  The floor was sunken several levels of tiers for milling witches and wizards in sumptuous robes to mill about in, the echoing noise of their chatter filling the vaulted ceiling.  It was an imposing room, with strange painted murals that moved in the Wizarding way, ancient figures in togas all whispering to each other, and it was quite cold, though Harry thought the cool air felt good on his overheated face and neck.  Sirius was sweating outright, mopping repeatedly at his temples and upper lip.

The anteroom in which they loitered had an open archway which provided full view of the court, but a bit of dim privacy that felt rather cave-like, lit only by a single blue lamp.  Lyall Lupin had the lone chair, slumped uncomfortably in its uncushioned seat, but his eyes were on his son, who was upright by dint of sheer will and little else.  Remus propped himself upright against the wall, his skin the same colour as the grey of his robes.  Sirius divided his energy between frenetic pacing and fussing over Remus and yanking at the high collar of his sleek robe as if it strangled him.

'Stop,' Remus murmured.  'You're making me dizzy.'

'I should've let you spell my hair long,' Sirius fretted, running a hand through the short length of it and dislodging his careful grooming.

'I like it this way.  Padfoot.  Breathe.'

'I'm breathing,' Sirius retorted.

'Mr Black.'  Their heads turned as one toward the archway, where Lucius Malfoy invited himself inside with a short nod toward Lyall first, then Harry.

'Potter,' Sirius corrected, thrusting his shoulders straight.  'I adopted the name.'

'So you did.  I recall.'  Lucius Malfoy turned his piercing gaze to Harry.  'Master Harry,' he said.  He smiled, though it seemed to involve a certain amount of effort and the result was not altogether pleasant.  'My son has bid me deliver a letter on his behalf.  And his wishes to you and your godfather for swift release from this unfortunate miscarriage of Wizarding justice.'

'Oh,' Harry said, a little startled by that.  'Thank you, sir.  For, er, both.'  He took the folded parchment note Mr Malfoy handed him, rubbing a thumb over the seal of silver wax embossed with the Malfoy family seal.  Draco hadn't managed to send many letters over the summer, having been shuffled off to Sweden almost the minute he returned home from school.  So far as Harry knew, Draco was still there, boarding with an ancient old auntie who, Draco had informed Harry, dined exclusively on sauerkraut and pickled herring and smelled exactly as one might imagine such a diet would induce one to smell.  It was not exactly a punishment, Draco's Swedish exile, but Draco bitterly interpreted it as a disciplinary measure meant to remind him of his place.

'Though the Malfoy family have, unfortunately, no role in the Wizengamot, I have exerted my small influence wherever possible on the Minister of Magic and the Chief Warlock,' Malfoy said then.  He put his pointy chin in the air with great dignity.  'It is my hope that reason will prevail and your sentence will be issued swiftly, Mr Potter.  With appropriate compensation for the suffering you have endured, and the damage willfully inflicted on the House of Black.  And the House of Potter, given your role therein.'

'That is kindly said, and much appreciated,' Remus answered for Sirius, who was worming a finger beneath his collar again and scowling.

'Mr Lupin,' Malfoy acknowledged him.  'The governors have received your curriculum submission.  I believe you will be quite the asset to Hogwarts.'

'I certainly hope to be so.'

'I must to my other duties,' Malfoy said, and, with a final bow, left them.

'Well that was damned odd,' Sirius muttered.  'Influence my left foot.'

'What was that about?' Lyall asked his son, who put him off with a small shake of his head.  Lyall huffed.  Harry rather agreed.

Still, they had hardly been alone a minute when they had another visitor.  It was Rufus Scrimgeour, the Chief Auror of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and his visit, at least, they had known was coming.  Scrimgeour, like Malfoy and Sirius, had formal robes for the occasion, his red Auror robes but with a special black stole hung with long gold tassels like a vicar.  His wiry ginger hair was like the tassels, maning his severe face and fierce eyes.

''You've got the full Wizengamot today, Black,' he announced.

'Potter,' Sirius snapped.

'Black.  The adoption may be legal under goblin terms, but you'll find the Wizengamot eager to set their own stamp of approval on the smallest details of this fiasco.  I wouldn't claim that in front of them til you've had a bill of innocence.'  Scrimgeour removed his gloves with two precise tugs and tucked them through his belt.  'I wanted to speak to you about Peter Pettigrew.'

Sirius's eyes widened.  Then narrowed.  'What about the rat,' he said coolly.

'Once we have a verdict, we have the papers drawn up to begin an investigation into his whereabouts-- officially.  Unofficially, I've had a few of my boys on it since we recovered you.  I'd like to review a few items with you, if you could spare us the time.'

'Absolutely,' Sirius growled, and accepted Scrimgeour's hand for a vigourous shake.

The trial itself was brief.  Harry had no idea what to expect, having never experienced Wizarding court before; or Muggle court, for that matter.  As family, Remus and Lyall and Harry were allowed to witness proceedings, but not to speak, and so they found themselves climbing to the highest tiers where non-participants were relegated.  This difficulty consumed much of the opening remarks, between supporting Lyall on his crutches and worrying that Remus ought to be supported in turn, he was so pale, but Remus kept his feet til they made it to an open bench.  Harry sat himself on the end, where he could see over the tall furred hat of the wizard seated ahead of him, and at last spotted Albus Dumbledore at his elevated desk looming above the elegant plum-robed members of the Wizengamot, looking down in judgement at the dock, where Sirius sat very alone in a strange chair.  The arms seemed very ornate and bulky, but it wasn't til Sirius shifted restlessly that Harry realised the chair was adorned with chains, and they had slithered about Sirius and bound him down.

'Remus?' he worried.

Remus correctly interpreted his distress, however, and smiled reassuringly.  'Don't worry.  He's come a long way.  He can do it, Harry.'

'If you are ready, Mr Black,' said Dumbledore, looking up from a long roll of parchment he read, 'we will administer the Veritaserum.  I will lead the primary questioning, but you are to answer any member of this body who wishes to pursue a particular issue.  Your testimony will be captured for the record and made available for any person with appropriate clearances.  As per statute, your hearing is also open to the press, as you have waived your right to a closed hearing.'  He indicated a small group of people sat at the bottom tier, all of whom had lap desks with rolls of parchment and quills at the ready.  Harry, peering down, scowled to see Rita Skeeter amongst them.   _The Daily Prophet_ columnist had been stopped writing a book about Harry last year, but had been testing the waters of late with articles about him.  Since it had become public knowledge that Harry had been adopted by Sirius, she could claim to only be passing on what everyone already knew, and Harry could do little about it.  He quite disliked her, however, and Sirius had refused the  _Prophet_ an interview thirteen different times on Harry's behalf.

'I have,' Sirius replied.  Harry was cheered to hear his voice, strong and unwavering.

'Then let us begin.'

Harry, of course, had already heard Sirius's story.  Remus seemed rivetted by the re-telling, but Harry didn't like the effects of Veritaserum, and focussed instead on the interesting details of the trial.  It was most intriguing to see Dumbledore outside Hogwarts.  His sombre robes, for instance, made Dumbledore less a figure of whimsy and fit more Harry's idea of a judge, an old man in a white wig like in cartoons and films.  In other respects, however, Dumbledore seemed like himself.  As he questioned Sirius, he twirled his long beard about the tip of his wand, a habit Harry had observed many times before, when Dumbledore was deep in thought.  His air was cool and deliberative, but he was not unkind, and delivered his list of questions in a manner both reassuring and impartial.  He deferred a few times to a witch who sat near his podium, a lean woman with a canny look about her and an abrupt way of speaking, and twice asked Scrimgeour for a clarifying statement.  But Harry wasn't truly paying attention til he realised that someone had asked Dumbledore a question, and all eyes had turned toward the Headmaster and Chief Warlock.

'No,' Dumbledore answered briefly.  'I knew of the Fidelius, of course, but I advised the Potters to keep the identity of their Secret Keeper a-- well, a secret.'

'But you understood their choice to be Sirius Black,' pressed the canny-looking witch at his right.

Dumbledore inclined his head.  'I did.'

Harry tugged at Remus' sleeve.  'Why did Dumbledore know anything about it?' he asked quietly.

'Because of the Order,' Remus replied softly.

'But I thought that was a secret too?'

'Your father in particular had a long-standing friendship with Dumbledore.  He considered Dumbledore something of a mentor, even a father figure, since his own parents had passed away by then.  That's all Madam Bones is referring to, although I wouldn't be surprised if she did know something about the Order.  Her brother Edgar was in the Order.  Eddie and all his family were killed by Voldemort, and Amelia would've investigated what drew the Dark Lord's attention to a mid-level Ministry official so viciously.'

'Is she someone important?'

'The head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,' Lyall grunted from Remus's other side.  'The first witch to hold the position since the Department was created, and, if you believe the rumours, she's the one who ousted old Crouch.  With a fist fight.'

'It was a proper duel,' Remus corrected, amused.  'Though I heard she did prefer spells with a particularly aggressive effect.'

'So there's no material proof that the Potters switched their Secret Keeper, other than your word?' an ancient-looking wizard was saying critically.

'The word of a man under compulsion to speak the truth,' pointed out his colleague a row beneath him, twisting back to look.

'I have heard that there are methods and ways to subvert the Veritaserum,' said a craggy-faced crone, sniffing with disapproval the way Lady Longbottom often did.

'With respect, Honoured Madam,' said Scrimgeour, 'questioning the validity of Veritaserum threatens to overturn dozens of convictions from the last session alone.'

'But is this true?' asked another, looking to Madam Bones as well as Scrimgeour.  'Veritaserum can be fooled?'

'If I may,' said a voice from near the floor, 'I can assuage the court's fears.'

Harry sat up straight.  He knew that voice.  He'd been at summer tutoring with that voice every week for two months.

'Please come forward, Master Snape,' Dumbledore invited, and that was when Harry was sure this had been planned.  He knew how busy Snape was over summers, brewing everything that would be needed for the new schoolyear, brewing private commissions, conducting his own research-- Snape made a point of telling Harry how very busy he was whenever Harry threatened to waste his valuable time by inattention or poor performance.  Snape didn't hang about the Ministry on the off chance he'd need to offer testimony, and he especially didn't offer testimony in favour of Sirius Black, with whom he had a very real and very lively feud.  Remus had banned Sirius being in the house when Snape was set to visit for Harry's tutoring sessions, it was that bad.

'Who is this young man?' demanded the old crone who'd brought up the problems with Veritaserum.

Snape bowed politely.  'Madam von Vczelmann, I am one of only three authorised brewers of Veritaserum for the Ministry.  I can confirm that Veritaserum does indeed function as a "truth serum", within certain constraints, as is the case with all potions.  The appropriate dosage is crucial to the effectiveness of Veritaserum, which, when administered to a subject, experiences a declination of potency over a period of time which observation and experimentation has pinpointed to be approximately twenty minutes per the recommended dose equal to three troy grain weights under the Apothecary's Weights and Measures system, pre-Imperial, of course.'

Harry had been made to memorise not only the Apothecary's Weights and Measures system, both pre- and post-Imperial, but also the English troy system, the Avoirdupois system, and the umbrella system of English units, since wizards did not, so far as Harry could tell, have any understanding of the metric system now used by Muggles based on decimals, which Remus had been at pains to teach him in Harry's limping education in all things Muggle he wasn't being properly exposed to at Hogwarts.  Remus said most wizards couldn't do maths more complex than what could be achieved with ten fingers and ten toes; Snape had grudgingly agreed, and given Harry the illustration of a famous Potioneer in the Edwardian period whose recipes were uniquely structured around eights, having lost two fingers to an acid accident in the laboratory.  Harry gathered most of the Wizengamot were of this type, given the blank looks and uncertain muttering going on amongst the members of the court seated above Snape.

'Approximately?' prompted Madam Bones.

Snape bowed again, this time to her alone.  'Approximately, Madam, because one must include in one's calculations the mass of the individual being dosed-- that is, their height and weight-- as well as their age and relative health, and the possible influence of outside factors such as magical strength.  Veritaserum is functional for Squibs, for instance, because a magical core exists, but not for Muggles, who have no magic at all.  The standard dose of Veritaserum represents the Goldilocks Theorem: it is neither too much nor too little for most wizards and witches.'  Snape paused to let that sink in, though Harry mostly used the short silence to wonder whether he'd actually heard the dignified Potions Master refer to a Muggle nursery story.  'As to the question of whether Veritaserum can be "fooled" or "subverted"-- there are those who may boast of such methods, but if-- I stress "if"-- such has ever been achieved, it could only be within the brief window of the serum's lowest effectiveness, which is the moment of ingestion and the moment of dissipation.  For this reason, the use of Veritaserum is always observed by a trained monitor.'

'If there are no further objections,' Dumbledore said, tapping his wand on his desk and producing a brightly lit _Tempus_ charm that showed a dwindling number of minutes.  'We have limited time to complete our questioning.'

'Interesting,' Remus murmured.

'Not any more interesting now than it was for three weeks of revising,' Harry muttered back.

Remus's lips curled upward slightly.  'Not the bit about measurements.  Dumbledore.'

'Dumbledore?  What did he do?'

'By all appearances, he kept his word.'

'His word?'

'He told you he would support you staying with your chosen guardian.  He just brought a ringer to your godfather's trial to ensure he'd get off-- and I'd bet he planted the notion of faulty Veritaserum with Madam von Vczelmann.  Most of the Wizengamot are old and long past their schooling-- not that good marks are a necessary qualification for a seat.  He set Snape up to undermine the most valid objection they could raise, and Snape belaboured the point so much it would be humiliating to challenge him further on the subject.'

'Shhh, I'm listening,' Lyall hissed, broadly nudging his son.

But there was little left to listen to.  Dumbledore finished his list of questions, which Sirius answered promptly in that flat, remote way people did under Veritaserum, and soon the whole story was out.  The Potters had settled on the Fidelius as the only way to protect their young family, but the Fidelius required a Secret Keeper.  They had wanted Sirius at first, but Sirius had suggested they switch to Peter Pettigrew, who was less likely to be suspected-- though, in truth, it was Peter's idea, and Peter had urged the switch in order to bring that valuable intelligence to Voldemort, who hunted the Potters as he'd hunted many Aurors fighting his Death Eaters.

And less than a week after Peter gave up the Secret, Voldemort had broken the Fidelius and killed Harry's parents.  And tried to kill Harry, only to fail extraordinarily.

No less extraordinary was this: Dumbledore didn't cease his questions for Sirius at the revelation that it was Peter Pettigrew, too, who had murdered a dozen Muggles after framing Sirius for the crime, and cut off his finger and disappeared so no-one would know he had survived the massacre.  Though that conclusively proved Sirius's innocence in the matter, Dumbledore had one question more.

'And did you, Mr Black, escape from Azkaban Prison with the sole aim of protecting your godson, young Harry Potter, who not three months ago faced down a man who was possessed by the spirit of Lord Voldemort?'

Instantly the chamber erupted.  Wizards were on their feet shouting, the old crone fell back in a faint, witches cried out and fanned themselves with the wide sleeves of their formal robes.  Lyall let out a little barking laugh and slapped his knee, chortling to himself.  Remus only drew a deep breath, and nodded as if something important had just been confirmed.

In the din, it was at first impossible to hear Sirius's response.  Dumbledore was obliged to request a repeat, and, even then, it was Rufus Scrimgeour whose deep voice boomed out the answer.

'Yes,' Scrimgeour said.  'Even so.'

'Lies!' hollered a middle-aged wizard with long curly hair flowing over the furred collar of his robe.  He waved beringed hands as if swatting down gnats all around him.  'It is lies, Albus, there's no way You-Know-Who--'

'But it cannot be lies, my dear Montclare,' Dumbledore replied serenely.  'We still have minutes on the clock with this dose of Veritaserum, well within the safety margin.  Mr Black's testimony cannot be anything other than truth.'

Rita Skeeter and the other reporters sat with her were scribbling furiously.  Skeeter in particular looked gleeful.

'That's how Albus Dumbledore wins wars, Harry,' Remus said.  'That right there.'

 

 

**

 

 

They had a celebration at the Leaky Cauldron, a huge spread of food and desserts and a bottle of champagne, which Harry was allowed to try given the momentous situation.  There was plenty of time after to do a little shopping in Diagon Alley, though it seemed word went around in short order that Harry Potter and his infamous godfather were on the town, and they retreated once a crowd began to hound them from store to store.  Dinner was a more subdued affair; each of them was tired, and it was pleasant enough merely to sit with each other in their suite, talking of everything from what Harry would study in class his second year to reminiscences of the past to speculating on whether the Aurors would have any luck tracking Peter Pettigrew.

'Peter was a clever little rat,' Sirius said bitterly.  He gazed into his glass of wine with an implacable scowl.  'There were a fair number of Ravenclaws who went Dark,' he added abruptly.  'A lot of Purebloods go to that House.  Purebloods with foreign ties.  Immigrants, you know-- they care about things like merit and hard work.  Slytherins would rather work smart than hard.  That was Peter all over, though.  I'd give a lot to know what the Hat thought of him.'

'The hat?' Remus wondered.

'Sorting Hat,' Harry guessed, stirring uneasily over his cocoa.  The Sorting Hat had wanted to put Harry in Slytherin.  He hadn't yet found reason to inform his godfather of this fact.  Sirius hated Slytherins in general and several Slytherins for very personal reasons.  Given the horrible things he'd been through, fighting Death Eaters in the war and betrayed by one of his closest friends, imprisoned in a horrible place for ten years, Harry couldn't say Sirius hadn't earned his hard feelings.  He just didn't want to invite Sirius to express those feelings in his direction.

'Enough of that,' Lyall said suddenly, leaning over to pluck the wine glass from his son's hand.  'Alcohol won't sit well on your potion.'

'Da!'

'He's right, love.'  Sirius leant over the arm of his chair to nuzzle familiarly at Remus's ear.  'But give it back for one final toast, Da, and then we'll all be good boys and go to bed.'  So Remus reclaimed his wine, and Harry lifted high his cocoa, and Lyall his whiskey, and Sirius raised his glass.  'To James and Lily,' he said.  'And to Harry, and to all of us.  And, hell, to Peter.  May he rest in pieces once I've done with him.'

Harry was awakened from his doze some hours later to find the sun had set at last, a warm summer twilight with a refreshing breeze from the open window.  A check of his wristwatch confirmed it was only nine, but already Lyall was snoring away in the bed next to Harry's.  His years at Crowhill Boys' Home had inured Harry to that sort of racket.  It was, in fact, the sound of ginger footsteps that had waked him.  Someone was moving in Sirius and Remus's room.  Two someones.  And those someones were opening and then closing the door and creeping down the corridor outside their suite.

Harry followed, naturally.  Sirius had hold of Remus, supporting him as they picked their way down the stairs toward the Leaky's common room.  Knowing he'd be scolded for being out of bed, but worried nonetheless, Harry trailed their descent, and emerged in time to watch Sirius raiding the pot of Floo Powder at the big hearth.

'Sirius?' Harry blurted.

A dark head turned toward him.  'Hey there,' Sirius whispered.  'Go back to bed, kid.'

'Are you leaving?'

'Just to pick up something from home.  We'll be back when you wake up.'

'He's doing really poorly, isn't he?'

'He'll be right as rain tomorrow, you'll see.'

'I'm not a little boy, Sirius.'

Sirius looked at him a long time, despite the sagging weight of Remus leaning half-sensible on him.  Sirius nodded then.  'No, I can see that.  But it's the truth.  He'll be better tomorrow, once he isn't taking the potion anymore.'

'Why's he got to take it, if it makes him so ill?  I mean... I mean, isn't there anything better?'

Sirius grimaced as if this had touched a nerve.  He hefted Remus, catching his lolling head on his shoulder.  'I don't think he should take it at all, but I don't win that argument.  There'll be time to talk later, Harry.  Go back to bed.  We'll be back before you know it.'

There was no arguing with that.  Sirius didn't linger.  He flung his powder into the fire, and carried Remus into the ashes.

'Ty Mawr, Beddgelert,' he said, and they vanished in a flash of green flame.


	2. Magical We

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which He Who Would Tell Diverse Tales Must Know How To Vary The Tune._

The invitation was delivered by owl early Sunday. Remus had elected a picnic brunch to celebrate a fine warm summer weekend, and had spoilt Sirius with a vast array of his favourites-- crepes with strawberries, greasy sausage rolls, greasier bacon, and some kind of fried flatbread Sirius had learnt to love on an exchange term at another school of magic where, Sirius told Harry, he had picked up a smattering of Bulgarian curse words, some rather dirty duelling tricks, and a deck of trick cards so very dirty Remus immediately banned Sirius from sharing them with an impressionable young boy. Sirius winked at Harry, mouthing 'later'.

By the time the owl arrived, Remus had moved to the shade with the newspaper and Sirius had engaged Harry in a game of fetch. Sirius-- or Padfoot, as he liked to be called in his dog form-- was an enthusiastic romper, and their games often went a little too far before Harry quite realised they were headed for trouble. But there were no puddles today, no thorn bushes (not since the last uncomfortable encounter), and Remus had literally grounded them from flying since he'd caught Sirius teaching Harry the Wronski Feint-- Sirius for teaching Harry something that fell into the 'death and decapitation' end of the consequences scale, and Harry for his poor attempt at lying to cover them when they were caught at it. Harry knew he wouldn't be punished for long, however. That, and with his second year at Hogwarts to look forward to, he knew he'd have plenty of challenge on the Quidditch pitch within the month. It wasn't Sirius's fault that fetch couldn't hold a candle to the thrill of a proper game, but when the owl arrived Harry immediately abandoned the droolly tennis ball and greeted the owl. She was a beautiful bird, too, a big snowy owl with a proud tilt to her head. She cooed with pleasure as Harry stroked her soft white feathers admiringly.

'It's from Gilderoy Lockhart,' Remus observed, turning an elegant envelope this way and that to catch the gold in the gilted calligraphy. He sniffed it. 'Mm,' he said.

'What?'

'Good cologne.'

'What's it _say_?' Sirius panted, popping out of his dog form back into man-shape, and dropping a gnawed stick on Remus's lap.

'It's an invitation. To a book signing. And dinner.' Remus handed the invitation to Harry. 'It's addressed to the both of you.'

'Do I have to?' Harry grimaced.

'Who's this fellow?'

'One of Harry's instructors,' Remus told Sirius, returning to his paper. 'And no, Harry, you needn't, though if you choose not to, we'll have to avoid Flourish and Blotts. The signing is the same day you're meant to meet the Weasleys and the Grangers in Diagon Alley.'

Bad enough he had an entire year more of Lockhart's Defence class to look forward to. The thought of kicking it off with Lockhart and the entire press corps of Wizarding Britain was a far more acute prediction of misery. 'Well, even if they have to go, I've already got most of my books,' Harry said optimistically. 'Maybe I could just ask Ron to get me the last few.'

'That's wise.' Remus flipped the paper about to show Harry a headline: **Dumbledore To Wizengamot- You-Know-Who Not Dead? Conflicting Tales Obscure Truth of Hogwarts Siege!**

Harry groaned. 'Rita Skeeter?'

'Afraid so. She's quite accurate, for once. I wonder who her source is?' Remus folded the paper, smoothing it across his lap. 'Weasleys,' he said thoughtfully.

'What?'

'I think I'm going to fire-call Molly,' Remus said, and rose with an absent pet to Sirius's upturned head. 'Don't get sun-burnt,' he added, and returned to the house at a brisk pace.

Sirius rolled his eyes at Harry. 'He only likes being mysterious,' he said. 'He'll get around to telling us what he's up to when he wants congratulations on it.'

They didn't have to wait long for Remus to reveal his plan. By the time they were sitting down to a light supper Remus announced he'd settled everything: rather than meeting the Weasleys at The Leaky Cauldron for lunch, they would Floo to the Weasleys' house in Ottery Saint Catchpole and travel to Diagon Alley all together.

'Oh,' Harry said, surprised but rather feeling he was missing the triumphantly clever bit. 'That's, er, nice.'

'We'll have a bit more of a crowd. Bill will be joining us, and Arthur as well.'

'Bill? The dishy ginger?' Sirius asked with increased interest.

'Yes,' Remus replied, with a repressive glance. He set a glass of milk at Harry's plate and dished him a large serving of greens. 'All the Weasley boys will be there, actually, and Ginevra, the youngest. Harry won't stand out in that crowd at all-- not once we disguise your most infamous features, that is.'

'Disguise?' Harry repeated.

'One more red-head amidst the entire Weasley clan won't catch any notice at all.' Remus served Sirius and then himself, and sat. 'You, my dear, are another issue altogether. I don't suppose you'd wear a hat? Or, better yet, go as Padfoot?'

'I won't hide,' Sirius said flatly. 'That's the entire damn point of the trial. I'm a free and innocent man and I won't pretend otherwise.'

'Even if it draws attention to Harry?'

Sirius pulled a face. 'I see your point, I just... a hat, eh.'

'And Muggle clothes, maybe? We'll have the Grangers with us, it won't be too odd.'

'One of those ugly shirts of yours?'

'What's wrong with my shirts?'

'All right, all right, we'll do it your way.' Sirius shovelled a forkful of salad into his mouth and chewed noisily. 'You know, love, someday you're gonna come up against something you can't control.'

'Is that what you think?' Remus sipped his water and set it aside. 'If it seems I hold on a little too tightly, Pads, I've got my reasons.'

Sirius hid a twitching frown with another bite of salad. 'I'm just saying, you don't have to, not now.'

'Voldemort was nine months in Hogwarts. And that's leaving out the mess of Scrimgeour and Fudge's feud, and Dumbledore's power to interfere in Harry's care. Now as much as ever, Sirius.'

'Try to unclench once in a while, that's all I'm saying.' Sirius nudged Harry. 'As for you-- you unclench, too. Diagon Alley will be fun, you'll see. You're far too grim, Harry. You need some adventure in your life.'

'I think I had plenty adventure last year,' Harry offered. He finished his milk. 'Honestly, a little less adventure would be fine by me.'

'We've ruined him,' Sirius pronounced gloomily. 'To think, a Potter done with adventure.'

'I... I mean, only a little less.'

Sirius softened. 'I'm only joking, boyo. Don't look glum, Remus'll punish me.'

'Harshly,' Remus said pointedly. 'I'm of the same mind as Harry. And it's to be my job to see to it we have a much quieter year, and, frankly, I'd like to earn my keep.'

'Scrimgeour's your keep.'

'Harry's my keep.' Remus turned a small smile on Harry. 'First, foremost, and always. So. Rest up. You'll be too busy having fun with your friends to mind Rita Skeeter.'

Harry returned his smile, and Sirius's wink, followed by Sirius flinging a bit of lettuce at him across the table. It was Sirius's version of an apology, as was the fully fledged food-fight that resulted, and by the time they goaded Remus into chasing them up the stairs with a plate full of projectiles, any glumness was forgotten and Harry was laughing in delight.

 

 

**

 

 

The Burrow was wonderful.

The Weasleys' house in Ottery Saint Catchpole was infinitely interesting. Though Harry had been some time getting used to Wizarding households, the Burrow was something new altogether. For all its moving staircases and wonky windows and house elves and talking portraits, Hogwarts was a castle, and had a certain dignified austerity to it. The Burrow was, to put it mildly, eccentric. Its upper storeys leant precariously, tilted like a child's building blocks stacked unevenly. Smoke emerged from several chimneys, curliques of white against the warm summer sky. A large garden occupied a considerable range of the hillside on which the house perched, and chickens scratched amongst the dirt of a pen alongside a pair of honking geese and a cow noticeable less for its size than its violently purple hide. Harry blinked at it as he followed Remus and Sirius round the back to the kitchen door. Remus knocked to announce their arrival, but no sooner had he scratched at the door than it was flung open.

Molly Weasley was a kind-faced woman with frizzy hair wound in a braid about her head, wearing a house dress covered by an apron that had already suffered a dire attack of egg and flour. She wiped her hands on it before embracing Remus and then Harry, who stiffened in her warm arms. Ron had always spoken of his mother with the sort of off-hand disregard of a boy who'd never much had to think about mums before-- or, more precisely, never had to think about not having a mum. Harry felt an odd sort of-- well, awe, perhaps, at the way she welcomed him so gladly, holding his face between her palms and gazing down into his eyes to study him silently. She never stopped smiling, though, after a moment, it deepened to something knowing and tender.

'Aren't you lovely,' she said fondly. 'You're exactly what Lily and James would have wanted of you. And a handsome young man to boot.'

Harry's cheeks heated. 'Thank you, madam.'

'And manners!' She released him only to put her arm about his shoulders and guide him inside. 'You're an absolute darling, Harry. May I call you Harry?'

'Oh-- yes, please.'

'Then you can call me Molly.'

'Er... I don't think I can, actually.'

Mrs Weasley chuckled at this. 'We'll see. Sit, sit. Did you have breakfast? I know we'll have lunch in Diagon Alley but nothing like a good breakfast, and if I do say so myself I'm a fair cook, you know. Oh, you're a delicate little thing, aren't you? You could do with feeding up!'

'I'm not delicate,' Harry protested, even as he was led to a large table in the midst of a big warm kitchen. Breakfast was preparing itself at several stations-- a knife was chopping onions at the cutting board, a fork was turning sausages on the range at the stove, and a wooden spoon was coddling eggs in a large skillet. Mrs Weasley set him a mug of tea with several sugars in it and a huge portion of cream, which Remus subtly removed when her back was turned, substituting it with a fresh mug and only two sugars. Sirius got the original cup, and sidled over to the window to dump it into the rose bush outside.

Mrs Weasley was just placing a very loaded plate in front of Harry when a herd of horses came galloping down the stairs. Not horses-- children, though they made enough racket that Harry fully expected dozens to come pouring in. It seemed like nearly that many, all of them flooding in at once and chattering at high volume. Fred and George, the twins, were in the lead, and Ron was trailing after them in a whinge about something he wanted back that he accused them of taking. Percy was next, in high dudgeon about his pet rat, who was doing poorly and needed medicine and could he take Scabbers to Diagon Alley with them so he could properly consult with someone qualified, no, _Fred_ , you don't count! Bill was there, helping himself to the toast freshly released from the old-fashioned upright hot point that appeared to have been magically enlarged to prepare an entire loaf at a time. Mr Weasley, whom Harry had met at Easter when Hogwarts was evacuated following Lord Voldemort's attack on the school, came in from the yard, wiping greasy hands on a rag and pausing only to kiss his wife before wading into the chaos, stopping an incipient fight between Fred and George by separating them to opposite sides of the table and listening patiently with one ear as Ron launched a fresh screed about his missing whatever it was and nodding along with Percy as Percy ranted about the needs of magical familiars and calmly ignoring the way every single Weasley child was calling something 'UNFAIR!' at the top of their lungs. In the midst of this, Harry turned his head, alerted by a flash of pink in the corner of his sight, and came face-to-face with a girl still in her pyjamas, staring at him bug-eyed. Her freckled face went very red, then very pale, and she fish-mouthed mutely, but the spell wasn't broken til George knocked a plate off the table reaching too far for the chipolatas and Mrs Weasley shrieked as Percy shoved his rat in her face. The girl broke from her trance and ran the way she'd come, fleeing up the stairs at a record pace.

'That was Ginny,' Ron told Harry, shrugging, and went back to arguing with his father.

All the ruckus was oddly familiar. Change the scenery and remove the magic, and Harry might have been in the mess at Crowhill Boys' Home, where every morning had been much the same as the morning before that. Meals there were generally a lot of jostling and yelling about silly things that never really changed, even if the boys themselves left-- there were always boys unwanted out in the world, and anyone who got out of Crowhill was immediately replaced with someone new. Harry had been some seven years at Crowhill, and had rarely joined in those morning to-dos. He'd had few friends, and no especial talent that might have made him popular or interesting, no special heirlooms for his roommates to steal, not even any enemies who might have tried to antagonise him; at Crowhill, Harry had been no-one in particular, practically invisible. He'd kept his head down, eaten his food, and let himself fade into the wallpaper, for there had been no-one to notice even if he hadn't. He was slipping away from the Weaselys' table to retreat to the corner before he even realised he was doing it, the habit was that engrained. But he found an unoccupied stool beside the big oaken hutch, tucking himself between it and a rack of table linens to make himself smaller. It was all a bit overwhelming, and he could breathe better at the edges of things than in the centre of them.

As it was, breakfast went on quite a while before anyone discovered him missing. Harry didn't mind at all, observing at a distance. He'd only just become used to life in Beddgelert with Sirius as his adopted guardian and Remus and Lyall and sometimes Glynnie, their Muggle housekeeper, but there was an ease to even the bickering amongst the Weasleys that Harry found himself wistfully envying. This was a real family, then. He'd always wondered what it was like. To have brothers who irritated you but still knew to pass you the brown sauce before you had to ask for it. To have a mum who tutted and complained but still dropped loving kisses to the crown of your head as she filled your plate. It was a magic as wonderful to Harry as the spell that set dishes washing themselves in the sink.

It was Mr Weasley who located Harry as the diners dispersed. He tripped over Harry's foot, actually, in passing him, and blinked owlishly to find Harry seated there. 'Why, hello,' he said, smiling. 'You're quiet as a mouse, I'd no idea you were here.'

'Hello, sir,' Harry said, standing awkwardly. 'I didn't mean to... I hope I didn't bother anyone.'

'No bother, no bother at all.' Mr Weasley very casually put his hand on Harry's shoulder, something he probably did all the time to his own sons, but it had the effect of rather charming Harry because of its very nonchalance. Sirius was sat with George and laughing uproariously at a joke, and Percy had pinned Remus down asking about the syllabus for class, but everyone else was moving on, either to clean up or dress for the day or headed outside for last-minute chores. Mr Weasley put his finger to his lips, indicating a need for silence, and guided Harry out through the laundry and into the attached garage. A flick of Mr Weasley's wand raised the lights.

'This is my get-away,' Mr Weasley said. 'My haven, if you will, when it all gets to be a bit much. I'm a bit of a collector, you see-- hoarder, if you take Molly's word for it.'

Harry was inclined to take Mrs Weasley's word for it. The garage was absolutely stuffed with things. Muggle things, of all sorts: the shelves were floor to ceiling and every cubby was bursting with contents, several more modern toasters, rotating fans, at least a dozen lamps of various shape and size, a flamingo lawn ornament, two or three hoovers and hoses for many more, a Monkees lunchbox and thermos set, a sewing machine set up with blades from a kitchen mixer, a box full of shoes that didn't seem to come in sets, a broken kite with a tangled skein of ribbon, a roller skate that served as a pencil cup, and many pieces of what Harry realised was a personal computer, like the one the Head at Crowhill had, a boxy thing in plastic casing with a small screen and a keyboard and lots and lots of cables. But the showpiece was the sky-blue Ford Anglia which had pride of place in the middle of the garage, its hood popped to reveal the engine in a state of repair. Or, as it were, disrepair-- Harry had never seen the inside of a car before, but he was fairly sure it wasn't meant to be a tangled mess with tools sticking out every which way.

'I've been working on the old girl for years,' Mr Weasley confided, patting the nearest side mirror with affection. 'I'm pretty sure I know how it runs; marvellous inventors, Muggles. Most mechanical things aren't terribly compatible with magic, not if the caster doesn't know what he's doing. Horror stories, let me tell you, I've heard them all-- I'm in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office in the MInistry, don't know if Ron's told you. It's become something of a hobby for me to try and get it right. Obviously enchanted engines can work quite well, or we wouldn't have the Express or the Knight Bus and the like, but the more complex it gets the harder it is to keep the magic working as intended. We men must have our hobbies, you know. Keeps us out of trouble. Unless your hobby _is_ trouble-- oh, those twins. We've had a fund set aside to bail them out of holding if the Aurors ever come calling, and I only wish that were a joke.'

'Yes, sir,' Harry said, feeling he might be required to say something, but not sure what exactly to respond to in that amiable onslaught of information. 'What's misuse of Muggle art-- art-if-ex?'

'Artefacts. Objects particular to Muggle culture. It's... well, I hope you won't see fit to turn me in, but it's more or less exactly what I'm doing here,' Mr Weasley explained with an abashed laugh. 'There are strict rules about interacting with Muggles, to ensure we don't break the Statute of Secrecy. You'll have had the Ethics of Co-Mingling lecture in the Muggleborn Orientation course, won't you have? It's possible to mingle magic and Muggle, but only when you can be absolutely sure it won't have an ill effect. Often a Misuse violation amounts to Muggle Baiting-- deliberately enchanting a Muggle's possessions to turn on him, for instance, to give him a bit of a fright for your own entertainment. You've heard of Muggle Baiting?'

'Yes,' Harry nodded, thinking guiltily of Remus, who had narrowly avoided a charge of that very crime. It hadn't been for entertainment purposes, however. He had done it to keep his job at Crowhill, so he could be near Harry, til Harry was old enough to know about the Wizarding World and go to Hogwarts. Remus had eventually been found out, but he'd made a deal with the Chief Auror instead. Remus would take a new job at Hogwarts, and he'd report to Scrimgeour about Dumbledore. It was a situation with which no-one was particularly happy.

'Dad? Oh, there you are, Harry.' Ron stood grinning at the door, and clapped Harry on the back as Harry joined him there. 'Mum says we're ready to go.'

'One last thing before we leave,' said a voice behind Ron, and Remus stepped through the laundry into the garage. 'Ron, would you mind standing just there? I'll use you as a model.'

'Oh, right.' Ron took up stance beside Harry. Ron, Harry noticed, had grown over the summer. He was now a full head and quite a lot of shoulder taller than Harry, who had not grown at all. Harry scowled.

Remus wove a circle about Harry's head, a moue of concentration on his lips. He tapped Harry's temple with the tip of his wand, and nodded his satisfaction. 'Arthur, your verdict?'

'Well done, old chap.' Mr Weasley ruffled Harry's newly reddened hair. 'The scar's still visible.'

'Curse scars tend to show even through glamours. Polyjuice would hide it, but we'll be in Diagon Alley much longer than an hour.' But Remus had a solution ready. He opened a small plastic compact, and applied a sponge to Harry's forehead, smearing some kind of cool liquid over Harry's lightning bolt scar.

'Is that Mum's cover-up?' Ron enquired.

'Cover-up?' Harry squawked.

'Yes, and yes.' Remus finished his work, and tilted Harry's face up by the chin. 'Yes, that'll do for anything but close examination. Shall we off?'

The rowdy crowd that was the Weasley family formed a squabbling ball before a large hearth like the one they had at Beddgelert, made specially big enough for people to duck under the lintel and stand more or less upright to use the Floo. Bill went through first, followed by Sirius, who spared a grin and a wink for Harry from beneath his fleece Cardiff RFC cap. Ginny went next-- Harry got another rushed look at her as she scurried from behind Mrs Weasley into the hearth, flinging down her Floo powder and whispering a squeaky 'Diagon Alley!' Fred and George went through together, no surprise there, but there was a disagreement between Ron and Percy about who would go next. In the middle of all that, Scabbers the rat got loose, hitting the floor with a scramble of claws. Harry darted out a foot to block the rat running away, and scooped it up. Scabbers squirmed in his hold, little paws pumping through the air and long bald tail twitching.

'Oh, just go, love,' Mrs Weasley said, pushing Harry onward. 'That rat'll be the death of me, I swear. No, Percy, you lost it, that'll teach you to hold on better. In you go, Harry.' She offered the pot of Floo powder, and Harry scooped a handful, clutching Scabbers to his chest. He climbed into the hearth, ducking Percy's glare, and flung down the powder.

'Diagon AllOWW!' Scabbers, already agitated, went into an absolute frenzy of wiggling, and sunk his teeth deep into the webbing of Harry's thumb. But there was no time to do anything about it. Green flames flared high about him, and Harry went tumbling through space.

He had Flooed often enough to know how it was supposed to go. But this was worse even than his first, nearly disastrous trip through the Floo, when he'd been mid-fall and had tumbled head over heels the entire way. This was more like riding the roller coasters at Alton Towers-- he was jerked about into a stiff climb, and then his stomach dropped clear into his shoes as he began to fall. Wind that was both real and not real blinded him with sheer force as he raced toward an invisible endpoint, and, despite himself, he braced for the inevitable impact. When he hit, it wrung a gasp of pain from him that robbed his lungs of the last bit of air, and he hurtled out of a grimy hearth on dusty stone floors, bruising elbows and scraping his cheek and impacting a cabinet that rattled and rained down chess pieces, clink-clink-clinking as they bounced off his head.

Scabbers flailed on his back and managed to flip himself. Harry made a grab for him and got him by the tail, and hauled him back in. 'Bad rat!' he scolded, and fumbled to get Scabbers secure in a pocket. Scabbers objected viciously, and bit Harry again for his trouble. Harry had absolutely no compunction about buttoning the pocket closed over the wriggling mass of angry rat.

He pushed himself up onto hands and knees. He was a bit dizzy and nauseated, but otherwise unharmed from his trip. But if this was The Leaky Cauldron's common room, it had undergone quite a transformation. Harry was in a dim room, and at first he could almost have taken it to be Mr Weasley's garage; it was stuffed with old junk. But there were no Muggle artefacts here. There was a low hum, almost an electric buzz of magical energy, and it reminded him of nothing so much as the Room in Hogwarts in which he'd found the Mirror of Erised. But where that Room had felt like light and air and heady secrets, this place was... darker. Malevolent, even. The shadows seemed to move, undulating, and Harry hugged himself, shivering.

A door opened, and Harry reacted purely on instinct. He darted for cover behind a desk piled high with old cauldrons, ducking into the knee hole. He was just in time. Footsteps scraped along the stone, more than one pair of feet. The door shut again, and someone said 'Lumos', lighting the room with a low orange glow.

'I'd offer you a seat, but you seem in a bit of a hurry.'

'Most observant, Mr Borgin,' replied a drawling voice that was oddly familiar. Trying to remain as silent as possible, Harry slid low against the desk, dropping his head to the floor. He saw very little at that angle, just three sets of shoes and black robes swirling around ankles. But the silver tip of a walking stick parked in front of one pair of polished black shoes caught at a memory. But it wasn't til one set of feet walked away from the others and a full body came into view that Harry was sure. It was Draco, and the one with the walking stick had to be his father, Lucius Malfoy.

'You may have heard the rumours that the Aurors are getting a bit bolder of late,' Mr Malfoy was saying. Draco didn't appear to be paying much attention to his father, except to be sure his father wasn't paying attention to him. The moment Draco confirmed he was going unobserved, he reached out for a glass case that held a withered hand on a cushion, thoughtfully poking a knuckle. The hand twitched, and Draco jumped back just in time to avoid being grabbed at. The hand managed to convey a sullen sneer as it flattened once again on its cushion.

'I may have heard something of the sort,' said the third pair of legs, shuffling in place. 'I've had contacts from a number of prominent families. Looking to... offload, before a search warrant turns up anything of interest.'

'Prominent families?' Mr Malfoy repeated keenly. 'I might be interested in a list of names.'

Harry pressed his cheek tight to the cold floor, his glasses digging into his face. He could just about see the man, a goat-faced fellow possessed of ragged mutton chops, rubbing his hands together with a look of unalloyed greed. 'I might be interested in discussing terms, Mr Malfoy.'

'I have several rare items I might be willing to let go.'

'Let me stop you there,' said Borgin. 'I'm stuffed to the gills, dear sir. It's a buyer's market and I'm glutted beyond what I can sell, specially with the Aurors out there raiding the grand estates on the slightest pretext. I don't need more things. I need money to carry me through a bad year.'

Mr Malfoy glowered at this. 'You've quite a lot of nerve, Borgin.'

'You think the Aurors haven't come here already, asking for exactly what you have? Now I may or may not have a list of names, sir, but this exchange will be on my terms, not yours.'

'Draco!'

Draco jerked away from a set of bloody playing cards displayed in a fan on a tray. 'I was just looking, Father.'

'Come here.' Draco came to his father's side, where Mr Malfoy set a hand on his shoulder-- not at all in the gentle way Mr Weasley did it, but coldly, almost distastefully, in a grip that looked like it hurt. Draco winced and turned his face away.

'I believe I have a proposition you may accept,' Mr Malfoy said after a moment of silence. 'Something that will aid the both of us in this present unpleasant climate. If your main issue is an abundance of stock in an economy uninclined toward purchasing your wares, what you really need is a partner who can move merchandise for you elsewhere.'

'I've got contacts of my own on the Continent, I don't need your middlemen. Sir.'

'No? Because it seems to me that if you had no need of sales, your storeroom wouldn't be quite so full up, nor quite so very dusty.' Mr Malfoy pinned Borgin with a canny eye. 'It's not just a bad year, is it, Borgin? More like a run of them... a decade of them, I'd wager. Knockturn Alley used to be a thriving marketplace, flush with foreign visitors all eager for the pick of Wizarding Britain's finest wares. Loathe as I am to admit it, the Aurors have become quite competent under Rufus Scrimgeour's leadership. There are no eager crowds clamouring at your door these days. Scrimgeour's done everything but shut you down, and I'd wager my family fortune the only reason he's held back from that final act is that he likes to leave a little bait in the trap. You're nothing but a danger to any Dark Wizard who dares to come to you without proper precautions. And if he doesn't destroy your clientele as an Auror, he'll destroy your entire customer base as Minister of Magic. A middleman is really the only chance you have for survival.'

Borgin bared his teeth. 'I don't take kindly to threats, Mr Malfoy.'

'And I don't take kindly to imbeciles. I'm offering you something far more valuable than money. If you don't take the deal, I'll find someone intelligent enough to know a gift when it's wrapped specially for him.'

Borgin resisted a moment more, but only a moment. He sagged, defeated. 'I accept.'

'Humbly,' Mr Malfoy said dryly. 'I'll contact you with a more secure location to discuss our new business arrangement. For now, watch your back, say nothing to anyone-- and alert me if anyone who might appear on that list of names comes looking for more of your aid. Come, Draco.'

Harry let out a big breath as soon as the door shut, taking the light with it. He'd have time to reflect on what he'd heard once he got out. For now, the important bit seemed to be the nugget half-buried in Mr Malfoy's flowery speechifying: Harry wasn't in Diagon Alley at all. He was in Knockturn Alley. He'd heard of Knockturn Alley (there had been speculation last year that Sirius Black, then believed to be an escaped, and insane, murderer, would hide out in Knockturn Alley), but one thing he'd never heard was where, exactly, it was. He hoped it was in London, but he didn't know. At least he could be sure it was still in Britain.

Harry left the shelter of the desk, fumbling his wand out before remembering he wasn't meant to be doing magic during the summer. Cursing the dark with a few colourful terms he'd learnt from Sirius, Harry fumbled through the pots and vases stacked on the high mantel of the fireplace, stretching on the tips of his toes to reach them all. He'd come through a Floo into this shop, so he could only hope there was a way out again on a live network. All the pots held a fair share of dust, but one had a handful of sandy stuff in it. Hoping it was Floo powder, Harry scraped up as much of it as he could from the nearly empty pot. He stepped into the hearth, threw down the powder, and whispered, careful of his enunciation, 'DIAGON ALLEY.'

He had just enough time to suck in a deep breath before green flame flared, and he was whirling away.

'Harry!' Remus was waiting for him at the other end, in the real Leaky Cauldron, arguing with Tom the barkeep and owner, but he whirled about when Harry popped out of the flames, sagging onto a barstool in relief. 'Thank God,' he said weakly, 'I thought you might've been lost!'

'I'm sorry,' Harry managed, sneezing at his now ash-covered clothes. 'I don't know what happened.'

'Floo accidents are all too common, but you could've ended out anywhere.' Remus gathered his dignity back and came to meet Harry halfway. He checked the glamour on Harry's hair, and the cover-up on his forehead. 'All ten fingers, all ten toes?'

'Check.' Harry wiggled his hands to prove it. 'But I heard something I think I should tell you about.'

The Leaky's back door banged open, and Sirius bounded in. 'Moony?' he called, and skidded to a halt when he spotted Harry. Then he slumped, suddenly boneless. 'Merlin's tit, Harry, you had me worried.'

'I'm all right.'

'Glad to hear it.' Sirius gave him a lopsided grin. 'So much for no adventure, huh?'

 

 

**

 

 

They joined up with the Weasleys, who had all been out looking for Harry, and the Grangers, who'd come in as planned through the Muggle side of The Leaky Cauldron. Sirius and Remus, in their Muggle clothes, blended in with the Grangers just as Remus had planned, though anyone listening in on their conversation would have immediately seen through the disguise as Sirius knew absolutely nothing about rugby no matter how big a fan his jersey made him appear. Dr and Dr Granger were a bit out of their depth with Diagon Alley, though they gamely agreed to every suggestion Mr and Mrs Weasley made and did their best to take the oddities in stride. Hermione was rather keyed up, more than usual-- Harry thought she was striving a little too hard to look as though she were all too used to Wizarding ways, rather than allowing herself to enjoy the newness of it, as Harry was wont to do. For Ron and his siblings, it was all part of the routine of school, and their excitement was more about the anticipation of a new year than about the fun of a purely magical place. Now that he'd seen the Burrow, Harry could only decide the Weasleys didn't know how lucky they were, to always be and always have been surrounded by the wondrous.

Still, Harry enjoyed himself immensely. His first trip to Diagon Alley had been spent agog with a completely alien world from what he'd known to the age of eleven. Now, he had a year's experience of the Wizarding World under his belt, and to his delight found he was able to pick out much more detail in the shops and passerby than he had before. He played a guessing game with Hermione, betting each other they could pick out the Muggleborns from the rest of the crowd. Though they had no way of verifying their guesses, Harry privately thought he had more correct than his friend: he had a theory that Muggleborns tended to dress more conservatively, and Wizards, especially Purebloods, gave rein to their more outlandish ideas of Wizarding fashion. He had only to think of some of the eye-searing colours Dumbledore favoured, or the dead vulture hat Neville Longbottom's grandmother wore for formal occasions.

They had just left Quality Quidditch Supplies-- Ron and the twins had to be forcibly dragged away, and so had Sirius, who moaned at Remus that he couldn't possibly be allowed to just enjoy himself, could he?-- when Mrs Weasley, consulting with Percy and Hermione, determined they had better head to Flourish and Blotts if they meant to conclude their shopping in time for a late lunch. Harry dropped back in their crowd to match stride with Bill and Remus, who were engaged in a rather academic discussion of curse breaking, the job Bill had returned to at the end of the last school year after Professor Quirrell had ceased to be a threat requiring the presence of multiple members of the Order of the Phoenix on school grounds. Bill was enthusiastically describing his current project in the Cairo Office of Gringotts Bank. Harry only half listened, because he'd noticed what no-one else seemed to: a teeming queue stretching round the bend in the Alley, predominantly made up of witches who all seemed to be wearing their finest and primping their hair and performing other last-minute touch-ups. Cover-up in compacts similar to what Remus had used on Harry's scar was on prominent display in dozens of hands.

'Oh!' Hermione exclaimed, coming to such an abrupt halt that Ron walked right into her. 'Oaf,' Hermione snapped, hauling up the back drapery of her robe to examine it anxiously. 'You trod on my hem!'

'You stopped in my way,' Ron shot back, unmoved. 'It's fine, I didn't tear it.'

'It's got a huge dirty boot-print!' Hermione moaned.

'I can fix that, dear, with these muck-rakers I've learnt to be ready with a household charm at any moment.' Mrs Weasley swished her wand at Hermione's robe, and did a brush-over of her own, patting at her hair to ensure her braid was still fastened in its crown wrap. 'That must be the queue for the book signing,' she said, her voice slightly higher than usual. 'Gilderoy Lockhart's new book.'

'Hermione's been reading those as if they're going out of print,' Dr Granger said, and his wife nodded along. 'I tried to read one, myself, but it was all a bit, well, fantastical to me.'

'Fantasy is an apt description,' Remus murmured.

'It'll take us all day to get our books,' Fred complained. 'I'm starving!'

Harry tugged at Sirius's sleeve. 'We could go back to the Quidditch store, maybe?'

'Oh, but don't you want a signed copy?' Hermione asked. 'He's even offered a Hogwarts' discount.'

'Good thing, since he's got his entire oeuvre on the book list,' muttered her mother, checking the parchment.

'Right-o,' Mr Weasley declared, gathering everyone's attention with a clap of the hands. 'Let's divvy up duties. Fred, George, and Ron: get in there and get the books for everyone. Percy, Bill, and I will wait in queue for the cashier-- get whatever you can to whichever of us is in the lead, and then to the next, and so forth; if we have to rotate we'll do so. Molly, you and the ladies take your place for the signing--' That last hardly needed to be said, as Mrs Weasley had already arrived at that same conclusion and was hustling off with Dr Granger, Hermione, and Ginny. Mr Weasley shook his head faintly. 'Remus, Sirius, Harry, I know you meant to split off, but I think the best cover might be inside, after all. With so many people all focused on Lockhart, no-one will pay you the slightest mind.'

Harry tugged uneasily on his glamoured hair, brushing it flat over his scar, just to be sure. 'I could help get the books,' he offered, more from a sense it was polite than because he truly wanted to.

'I'll help,' Remus decided. 'You and Sirius could go to the upper loft. It's bound to be a bit quieter.'

It was, but only by comparison to the sheer madness that surrounded Gilderoy Lockhart's table in the lobby. Sirius and Harry managed to inch their way up the stairs and squeeze into a pair of chairs in the reading nook, but only with great effort. It was a true mob scene, and the entire railing overlooking the lobby was three people deep with admirers. Overtop the appreciative murmur of the crowd, Harry could hear Lockhart giving a vivid reading from the new book. Lockhart performed his own material the way teachers read books to little children-- he did voices for the monsters and falsetto for the distressed damsels and an especially bombastic "hero" tone for his own character. Harry intended to pay it absolutely no attention, content to people-watch and enjoy his unusual anonymity, but that shattered when he heard his own name.

'Tragic though the murders of fair unicorns be, the true danger yet lay ahead. For no sooner had Quirinus Quirrell sheathed his blade in the saintly soft flesh of the noble Forest creature, than he turned his Evil Eye upon the castle and its even more vulnerable denizens: the children of our fine magical community, the most fragile members of our fair society, the fruit of our future's dreams. He would be merciless in his fury, he would murder even the innocent in his dastardly designs, but there was only one child for whom his bloodlust truly yearned:  _Harry Potter!_ ' Lockhart declaimed, and several people gasped, for all the story had been thrashed to death in the papers over Easter.

Harry stood and began to worm his way through the crowd toward the rail. His small stature was helpful, for once, as he was able to duck under elbows and slide through spaces too small for Sirius to follow. The adults let him pass with a few grumbles, and made just enough room for him that he was able to plaster himself to the railing, overlooking the mass of people below and able to easily pick out Lockhart less for his position atop a small dais than for the blinding gold of his robe. Whether he knew it or not, Lockhart looked rather like an angel, all aglow with light and a white cloak thrown back over his shoulders like feathery wings. The zealous awe he wore (entirely, Harry was sure, reserved for his own greatness) added to the look.

Well, that at least explained why Lockhart had wanted Harry to join him at the book signing. If Harry were down there now, Lockhart would be bellowing this blather right into Harry's face, and it would look like Harry were all right with it. Harry was not all right with it, not at all. What good was it to stop Rita Skeeter writing books about him if his own professors were keen to publish too!

'Twas then the true battle began, dear readers.' Lockhart dropped into a hush, and nearly every person in the shop leant in to listen, some with hands clasped to their mouths, some swaying faint with the combined anticipation and excitement. 'Young Potter could not know what deadly traps had been set for him. This boy, this sweet young child who had only just come into his magical inheritance, his beloved mother's wand clutched in one small hand, could not know that in his race to save his friends from their pain he would pit himself against a monster most devious. For though he had faced trials and trolls alike, there is no foe more deceitful, more deadly than a wizard who has given himself up to the Dark. Quirinus Quirrell had not murdered the unicorns for their blood, their heartstrings, their tails, not even for their diamond horns, but merely as a means to confront the Boy Who Lived-- the boy who as a mere infant had destroyed his master, He Who Must Not Be Named! Little did young Potter know as he raced through Hogwarts' barren halls that Quirrell had already trapped so great a wizard as Albus Dumbledore himself in his own Pensieve, leaving this sweet young boy of mere eleven years to stand off alone against a sorceror thrice his age and thrice again his power. Where did they meet for their duel to the death? In that place which had once been a sanctuary: that sinecure of solemn duty, the Headmaster's very office.

'Now I, dear readers, was not present.' Lockhart broke character for a moment, turning a sly wink on his enraptured audience. 'Had I been, there wouldn't be much left for the book!' This got a much bigger laugh than Harry thought it deserved, and he sulked resentfully as witches nodded to each other and wizards took up a little wave of applause. Lockhart gave his fakest laugh in reply, a modestly self-deprecating 'Ha-HA!' before he waved for quiet and resumed his reading. 'No, I was not present on that fateful hour, but Harry Potter, dear, sweet boy, told me himself the tragic tale.'

'Did not,' Harry muttered, quite affronted. So far Lockhart's story for all its embellishment had been mostly the truth, but Harry certainly hadn't shared what had gone on in Dumbledore's office with anyone who wasn't there! Not even Snape had ever asked for details, and Sirius hadn't elaborated much during his trial. Who had told?

'There in the ivory tower Harry climbed to meet certain doom. Bravely he confronted Quirrell-- valiantly he took up his mother's wand, trembling in his small hand-- recklessly he raised his wand and challenged Quirrell for the lives of his dear friends, his teachers, his classmates. "Stay!" he cried. "You shall not pass!" And with every fibre of his being he summoned forth magic and then, dear readers, then...'

Someone moaned. A few people were wiping their eyes with handkerchiefs. 'Then what?' someone called breathlessly, and it passed through the crowd like that, more and more people calling 'What? What!' til it built to a crescendo. Lockhart basked in the glory of it, his smug face beaming. At last he called for quiet by raising his book high, and everyone silenced themselves with a gasp.

'And then,' Lockhart whispered piercingly, 'then Harry Potter laid him low with one word: _Fire_.'

Harry shoved his way back through the crowd without caring who got stepped on or pushed. Sirius tried to catch him close, but Harry barrelled past him, too, and took the stairs as quickly as he dared, two at a time, three. He knocked into someone at the foot of the stairs jumping the last of them, and people staggered like dominoes in a little ripple, but Harry didn't stay to see. He fought his way toward the door, he thought that was the door, he could hardly see, he couldn't-- couldn't--

Then suddenly Remus was there, and he put his arms around Harry and just held him. Harry sagged into his chest, burying stinging eyes in Remus's ugly chequered shirt, shaking so hard he could barely hold himself upright. But he didn't have to. Remus took his weight, all of it, and got him to the door and out of it so swiftly Harry was barely aware of walking. The crowd parted for him where it hadn't for a random ginger boy-- people took one look at the thundercloud on Remus's face, and they moved.

Harry only felt he could breathe again when they made it outside into the sun. Remus didn't slow, not at first, and Harry didn't object at all to getting far away from Flourish and Blott's. But eventually Remus's stiff angry stride loosened, and he stopped dragging Harry along with that arm hard as iron about his back, shifting it to his shoulders instead and stroking now and then with his thumb. 'Sit,' he said, and Harry looked up to find they'd gone to nearly the other end of the Alley, to the patio of Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlour. Harry slumped onto a wooden chair at one of the bistro tables, and Remus went on inside, returning only a minute later with a large glass of water and two cones. Harry drank the water first, to ease the tightness of his throat, to unclench, as Sirius had warned him, the painful twist of his gut. Remus held the cones til he was ready for them, then wordlessly passed Harry the one with his favourite flavour, toffee with flakes of Honeyduke's chocolate. Remus asked no questions, said nothing, in fact, and Harry was unbearably grateful for it. They sat licking their cones in mutual quiet.

Harry was the one to break it, when he'd gone through most of his cone and begun to feel slightly ashamed-- well, not ashamed, exactly, but somewhat embarrassed with his flight out of a bookshop. It wasn't as if anyone had been staring or making a fuss over him-- disguised as he was, no-one had even known he was there, including Lockhart. Remus didn't like boys to say they felt stupid or thought others stupid, but Harry was feeling both at that moment. Lockhart was stupid, a big stupid fame-seeking idiot, and Harry was stupid for letting it bother him so much. It was only that he hadn't expected it, to hear that story from Lockhart's new book, to be the hero of the tale. To feel so very much like he hadn't been a hero at all.

Harry took their bits of wrappers and paper napkins to the rubbish bin, dusting his hands clean. 'We should probably find the others,' he began to say, but as he turned back he discovered Remus had been found by someone already. But not by the Weasleys or the Grangers or Sirius.

Mr Malfoy stood there.

Harry froze. After what he'd overheard in Knockturn Alley he hardly knew what to do-- or if he should do anything. He hugged the post of the patio roof, watching as Mr Malfoy glanced about, his gaze sliding right over Harry without recognition, before he nodded to Remus. 'Mr Lupin,' he said neutrally.

Remus very deliberately did not look in Harry's direction, which screamed louder than words that Harry was to keep back. He nodded in reply. 'Mr Malfoy. Good afternoon.'

If Mr Malfoy was here, Draco couldn't be far behind. Harry scanned the patio for him, and finally spotted Draco standing in the window of the parlour, stabbing a spoon at a cup of something and glowering out at the Alley beyond. Their eyes happened to meet, and Draco frowned at being noticed by someone who must have appeared to be a stranger to him. Then Draco noticed Remus, and his eyes flicked back to Harry, widening. He'd guessed.

'I wondered if you would attend Gilderoy Lockhart's reading,' Mr Malfoy was saying. 'I understand he invited the entire staff of Hogwarts, and...'

'And Harry?' Remus finished. 'He did, but Harry declined. I'm only in town myself to arrange a few shipments for the first month of classes. I'll be starting the fourth years on kappas.'

'Ah.' There was a pause, slightly strained. Mr Malfoy solved it by beckoning for his son, who had emerged from the parlour and was dragging his feet coming to them, clearly reluctant. Draco ducked his head as he passed Harry, keeping his face turned away. But Draco put on a good front for his father, and bowed slightly to Remus when Mr Malfoy performed an introduction. 'Professor Lupin, my son and your future pupil, Draco Malfoy.'

'We've met, actually, but it's a pleasure nonetheless,' Remus said graciously. 'Harry thinks very highly of your son.'

'I think very highly of him,' Draco said, and, despite his apprehension, Harry smiled.

'I'm afraid I have business to attend to--' But Mr Malfoy didn't go anywhere. He seemed to actually hesitate, something Harry was sure Mr Malfoy did only in the direst of circumstances. 'I wonder if you'll be in London long enough to speak with your employer?'

That was a curious way of referring to Dumbledore. Come to think of it, as a school governor, Lucius Malfoy was really more Remus's employer than Dumbledore. Remus canted his head to the side, eyebrows slightly arched.

'I have nothing of interest to say to him, as of yet,' Remus answered a moment later, in a way that made Harry think he was choosing his words with unusual care.

And, for that matter, Hogwarts wasn't in London, it was in Scotland. But there was something of interest that was in London-- the Ministry. Specifically the Aurors, and the Chief Auror, Rufus Scrimgeour.

'No doubt you'll find something to pique your interest soon,' Mr Malfoy replied. 'You scholars tend to find a wealth of information in the most unique of sources.' He patted his waistcoat, and removed a small black book with two gloved fingers. 'In fact I wonder if you might find this to be of interest, Professor. I've recently come across a number of fascinating first editions in my father's personal library. I had thought to donate a number of volumes to Hogwarts, as part of the continuing bequests the Malfoy family have made to the school, but some are... unsuitable... for young minds still new to scholastic enquiry. I was bringing this item to an associate for his professional opinion on its-- value-- but I wonder if I might persuade you to substitute? I believe you have proven you can conquer mysteries that no-one else in the magical community can crack, and you have more than proven you know how to detect something valuable where others fall short.'

Well that was definitely fishy. Harry tried to see without giving away his position. Draco was watching him sidelong and seemed to be willing Harry to spontaneously develop telepathy, but Harry's receptors were malfunctioning and so, evidently, were his glasses. He got a glimpse of a the book, but only a glimpse, as Mr Malfoy handed it to Remus. Remus didn't look at it at all before he tucked it inside his blazer.

'I'll do my best to provide any insight I can,' he said with toneless courtesy, and that was that.

'Come, Draco,' Mr Malfoy said, drawing his son away with him. 'Let us finish our business and hurry home.'

Harry returned to their table only after the Malfoys had vanished around a corner; one final look from Draco that he couldn't decipher put a cap on that strange encounter. Remus looked at him with a small smile of sympathy, and a little helpless shrug.

'Less adventure, eh,' he said.

They caught up with the rest of their party not long after. Mrs Weasley gave Harry a doting embrace, clucking maternally over him and giving him up only when Hermione cleared her throat. Hermione got her turn next, choking him a bit with the tight circle of her arms about his neck. 'I don't know why you're so upset, you were there,' Harry mumbled, and Hermione gave a watery laugh.

'Lockhart's the worst,' Ron said, and was flapped at by both mother and friend, but Harry grinned and agreed.

'You all right, kiddo?' Sirius asked him quietly, grey eyes concerned, and Harry reflected that, if nothing else, it was nice to be reminded he had a family of his own, as odd a collection as they were.

'Yeah,' he said. 'Though I don't really want a signed copy, Mrs Weasley.'

'Oh.' She fumbled to hide the book she was just about to give him, and Bill smoothly plucked it out of her hand and dropped it into Ginny's cauldron instead. Ginny jumped to hide behind her tall brother when she noticed Harry noticing her, ducking away with flaming cheeks almost as red as her hair.

They had their late lunch at The Leaky Cauldron, taking up the entirety of a private room Tom opened happily for them and sharing an entire roast as well as a half dozen pork pies, a platter of fried fish and a mountain of chips, and a number of scotch eggs, though most of those went into Ron's bottomless gullet. Mr Weasley was in ecstasy, asking Dr and Dr Granger innumerable questions about Muggle artefacts-- 'What exactly is the purpose of a rubber duck?' and earnestly explaining that Muggles could not possibly have walked on the moon, because rockets would puncture the ether. Sirius and Bill drifted over to the billiards table with sweating pints of ale, playing a limping game that seemed to be mostly showing off moves that weren't terribly effective at sinking balls, though they seemed to enjoy shedding their coats and rolling up their shirtsleeves and boasting about their skills loudly enough to attract the attention of a pair of comely witches seated at the bar. Remus kept score for them, not a taxing job, but he relaxed enough to laugh at their antics. When the younger folk wanted a turn at the table, Remus helped them rack the balls and polish the chalky tips of their cues, and even sneaked in a maths lesson about calculating the angles of their shots against the markings on the table's edge.

Harry had completely forgot about Scabbers in his pocket til he realised he was leaning up on the table in a way that would surely squish the poor rat, and he dove into his pocket dreading what he'd find. But it was empty, the button chewed off and missing. Harry immediately confessed to Percy, but a frantic search ended quickly-- Scabbers sat fat and happy on the remains of Percy's lunch, stuffing himself with the leftover chips. Percy scooped him up and read him an impressive lecture that had Fred and George rolling with laughter, and even Ginny left behind her shyness long enough to giggle along. Remus looked over with a thoughtful frown, but Sirius distracted him, and so none of the adults ever got around to hushing them before the children moved on to another game, and Scabbers went into Percy's cauldron for a nap, sealed inside with the lid overtop.

The Grangers were the first to leave, since they had to travel by car and had a ways to drive. Hermione gave tearful good-byes to everyone who would let her, which did not include Ron, who sensibly pointed out they'd be seeing each other on the Express in a week and there was no use being emotional about it. Harry rather agreed, but knew better than to raise the issue, and so Hermione went away huffing over only one of them. The Weasleys were off next, everyone shaking hands and Mrs Weasley dispensing hugs and Fred and George throwing themselves into each other's arms with hysterical wails until Bill dragged them to the Floo by the collar. Sirius insisted on checking the Floo before he'd let Harry do it-- he went to Beddgelert and came back to the Leaky and proclaimed it safe, though Harry was sure it was down to his fumbling the name and not any problem with the network itself, but it made Sirius feel better, and Harry felt rather better himself, actually, for the certainty.

Best of all to be home, he thought, and stepping willingly into the flames.


	3. Once More, With Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which The Destination Overruns The Journey._

Harry was up and eating a bowl of Weetabix the moment a wan bit of light graced the mountains with gold. He slammed a few cupboard doors and scraped his chair loudly and clunked the milk jug repeatedly on the table, so by the time Sirius came slouching in sandy-eyed, followed by Remus in his tatty housecoat, Harry was pointedly eyeing the clock.

'You wear me out, boyo,' Sirius said, flopping into a chair and dropping his head onto his arms.

'It's September,' Harry said helpfully. 'The first.'

Remus yawned. 'It's barely half five, Harry. The Express doesn't leave til eleven.' Harry glumly spooned the cereal mush in the bottom of his bowl, til Remus broke and chuckled indulgently. 'Put on the kettle and we'll get ready then. I don't suppose arriving a little early will harm anything. A _little_ early. No rushing.' He turned, and tripped over Harry's packed trunk sitting out on the rug. He canted an eye at Harry.

'Er,' said Harry. 'I'll move that, shall I.'

'Do, please. Then go say good morning and good-bye to Da. He's got something he'd like to give you.'

Lyall was still asleep when Harry arrived, carrying a cup of tea and a plate of scones and jam. But the old man roused, easing up on his pillows as Harry sat on the edge of his bed. 'Ready to go?' Lyall asked groggily.

'I've been ready for days,' Harry complained, and Lyall laughed just like his son did, like he was admiring a secret only he knew.

'Here, _bachgen_.' Lyall liberated a small pouch from his bedside table. 'Open that.'

Harry obeyed, untying the knotted string and peering in. It was a stick pin, the kind men wore in their ties. Harry pulled it out into the light. The face of the pin was a red lion, its right front paw raised to strike, blue tongue curling as it roared. 'Is this for Gryffindor?' Harry wondered.

'Llywelyn Fawr, my boy. Near a thousand years ago now, Llywelyn drove his uncles out of Gwynedd and took his rightful throne, and from there he built one kingdom out of the squabbling petty lords of Wales and made himself Prince of all Wales and Lord of Snowdonia, the most powerful ruler of all our history. They called him a second Achilles. Gelert's grave in town? Legend has it the Prince returned home one day from the hunt to find his swaddling child missing, the cradle overturned, and his hound Gelert bloodied at the mouth. Llywelyn slew the hound on the spot, only to hear the cries of his baby in the shadows, still alive, safe and unharmed beneath the body of a wolf-- killed by poor Gelert to protect the babe. Well, that's what we tell the tourists, anyway.'

Harry smiled obediently.

'You're one of us now, Harry.' Lyall took the pin in his claw-knuckled hands and gently inserted the stick into Harry's lapel. 'With all our triumphs and failures. And that means something. That means everything. You'll be off to school now to learn all about magic, and that's important, but there's a world beyond Hogwarts and the Ministry. My wife gave me that. My son wore it when he was a student, and I want you to wear it now. We need reminders, sometimes.'

Harry hugged him gingerly. Lyall squeezed him, but only once, and let go quickly, patting him on the shoulder and clearing his throat gruffly. 'Go on, then, go.'

'Thank you, Grandda.'

'Tch, Grandda. Makes me feel so old.' But Harry could see nonetheless the old man was truly pleased, and he was glad he'd tried the name. When he came back for Christmas, he'd be sure to use it again.

Absent any accidents with the Floo this time, they arrived in Diagon Alley well ahead of schedule, and, it being a fine day in lower England, decided to walk to King's Cross Station. Remus asked Tom to send their baggage ahead, and they exited The Leaky Cauldron into Muggle London. They had great fun answering Sirius's thousands of questions-- he wasn't quite so bad as Mr Weasley, but, Sirius said, he'd forgot a lot of what he'd once known, thanks to a decade-long sojourn in prison. So Remus explained why there were concrete pavements everywhere for pedestrians and that there were competing vehicle manufacturers which each made different models and no, they didn't need a car _and_ a motorcycle, and fizzy soda was mostly sugar but all right just this once, and Ronald McDonald wasn't some sort of Muggle nightmare monster but a clown, entirely harmless, and Muggles could build buildings so tall without magic because they had very developed engineering skills, being in many ways much more advanced than Wizarding kind.

Sirius made a funny sort of face at that last pronouncement, not unlike the face he'd made when he'd buried his nose in his lemon Fanta and got a sinus cavity full of carbonated bubbles. 'But you don't really think that,' he said, tone ticking up at the end in a question.

'I do,' Remus replied, two little words that were delivered lightly, but somehow seemed very heavy indeed. 'I've lived amongst Muggles most of my adult life. Even the least amongst them have more applied schooling than we do. And it's not just in education that they're superior. They adapt. The Muggle world today would have been unimaginable fifty years ago, and the Muggle world of the 1940s would have been utterly inconceivable a hundred years before that. They don't always do it smoothly, but they accept change. They want change. Wizardkind don't, and we expend a lot of energy ensuring we won't.'

'If this is about magical creatures and Squibs--'

'That's part of it, certainly.' Remus's eyes flicked to Harry, who sipped his blackcurrant Ribena and listened as he'd learnt to do at Crowhill, silently and saving his thinking for later so he wouldn't miss anything. 'But we can save that discussion for another day.'

'Don't do that,' Sirius dismissed him with a flap of his hand. 'Harry's more than old enough to have an opinion. What do you think, Harry?'

'About... about Muggles or Wizards being better?' he asked uncertainly.

'Harry, you don't have to answer.'

'People can disagree without exploding all over each other, Moons. Harry, you've lived with Muggles at that orphanage. And you definitely prefer the Wizarding World, am I right?'

'Well--' He felt unexpectedly caught out. 'I do, I... Magic is wonderful, of course--'

Remus softened. 'Of course it is. Personally I wouldn't want to go without it.'

'Thank you,' Sirius said, waving his arms expansively.

'But... but I'd miss a lot of Muggle things if I never had them again either,' Harry added tentatively.

'What, fizzies and sweets and such? We can buy you that if you like.'

'Other things too, like films and history and houses that aren't drafty and toilets that flush well and I wouldn't mind never having to wear robes again, specially in winter. And all that Pureblood stuff...'

'There's Muggle lords, you just told me they have their own House--'

'And there's been movement to abolish the House of Lords for a hundred years,' Remus muttered.

'I'm a Pureblood,' Sirius said, beginning to look put out. 'Your dad was a Pureblood. Both your dads.'

'And both suffered for choosing to marry Muggles or Muggleborns. Sirius, no-one's trying to hurt your feelings. Let's change the topic.'

For once, Sirius let it drop without protest, and Harry gradually allowed himself to relax. He had much to look forward to, his second year of school and being there with all his friends again. And Quidditch! He was terribly excited about Quidditch. Even though he'd been moved to first string last year on account of his Nimbus 2000 broom, Harry had spent much of his summer reading up on the sport, with Sirius to help him practise, and he had worked hard on a few moves he thought would please Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor team captain. Sirius was nearly as enthusiastic about Quidditch as Oliver, and, having been the better part of a year at Hogwarts as a dog when he was on the lam from the Aurors, had passed the time watching the various teams at practises and matches alike, and had some words of wisdom about strategy. They passed an hour in avid discussion, and before Harry was quite aware of it they were at King's Cross.

'Draco!' he shouted, and took off running. Remus called to remind him they still needed to fetch his trunk, and Harry answered vaguely, intent only on catching up to his friend. Draco turned to wait for him, hunch-shouldered in the flow of Muggles all about him. Unlike many wizards who didn't seem to know how to dress about Mugglekind, Draco had avoided some of the more obvious errors-- he had on matching shoes, even if they were made of runespoor skin, and no odd mash-ups, such as the stovepipe tophat with the top peeling off like a cartoon hobo's, worn by a witch who'd completed her look with a kilt and sparkle-crusted kitten heels. Draco looked a little like Richie Rich from the comics, with his slicked-down yellow hair and formal black jacket. 'All you need is a red bowtie,' Harry greeted him, grinning widely.

'A what?' Draco shrugged off anything he didn't understand out of Harry's mouth as he usually did. 'I'm glad you fixed your hair,' he said. 'Not that it's anything special normally, but that shade of red on you was atrocious. I don't suppose there was a good reason?'

'We all thought it would be better not to be recognised.'

'What's the point of being famous if no-one recognises you for it? I brought you something from Sweden.' Draco opened the small leather case he carried, and handed Harry a pepper mill modelled as a cringeing house elf.

'Er, thanks?'

'Great Aunt Nova didn't let me out of the house to do any shopping this summer, so I shopped indoors. She's got a mansion full of ugly old antiques.'

'Like that stuff in--' Harry almost said, Borgin and Burkes, the shop in Knockturn Alley where he'd overheard Mr Malfoy bargaining with the owner. But Remus had said not to mention that just yet, and Harry understood that extended even to Draco, though Remus hadn't expressly forbidden it. But even the chance to learn a little more about what he'd heard didn't weigh nearly anything against the desire to put a smile on Draco's face after months apart; he'd even settle for one of Draco's most nose-upturned, superciliously Pureblood smirks. 'Well, thanks,' he said, and stowed the pepper mill in a pocket. 'Close your eyes.'

'What?'

'Close your eyes and put out your hand,' Harry said patiently, enjoying Draco's suspicion. 'You won't get your present if you don't.'

That did the trick. Draco might naturally loathe being made a fool, even in jest, but he was far more greedy than anything else, so he obeyed at once and stuck out both hands. Harry laughed at Draco's full-body startlement as Harry placed an unwrapped chocolate frog in his palms, and the frog immediately leapt at his face.

'You!' Draco exclaimed, catching the frog by one long backleg-- it was a good catch, Harry noticed-- Draco must have been practising his Quidditch, too, even if everything else in Sweden had been pants-- and munched it viciously. He hid his mouth behind a knuckle as he chewed, but surrendered courtesy enough to needle Harry even with a full mouth. 'That's not a very good gift.'

'Neither's a pepper mill.' Harry made a show of producing something from his pocket. 'Ta-da,' he said. 'This is the real gift.'

'What is...' Draco's eyes went wide, and he grabbed the card from Harry. 'This is--'

'An original Myrddin Wyllt, in Welsh. I found it in town at Beddgelert. I had to sign a card for the shop owner,' Harry admitted, still a bit embarrassed he'd done it, but the light in Draco's sudden beaming smile made it clear a small sacrifice of dignity had been worth it. 'There hasn't been an original Merlin printed since 1843.'

'Not bad, Potter.' Draco admired his prize, though he gave up trying to read the Welsh caption. 'Who knew living in that backwater no-where would yield any dividends?'

Harry replied in the form of an eyeroll. 'Haven't you got a trunk?'

'The house elf is loading it on the Express. Where's yours?'

'Sirius and Remus were picking it up. Come on, I'll get it and we can go over to Platform 9 3/4.' Draco followed Harry as he about-faced, both of them ducking and weaving easily through the crowd of larger Muggles on their way to the storefronts nestled in brick-faced abodes along the station walls. A pair of seventh-year witches had taken advantage of the service, too, and emerged from the Left Luggage to give Harry a synced double-take, one tentatively waving at him. Blushing, Harry waved back, and they giggled.

'Do you even know them?' Draco muttered, sounding aggrieved.

'You're the one who thinks famous folk ought to be recognised. Do you see them? Sirius and Remus, I mean.'

'No, I-- oh.'

Draco stopped dead, and Harry only realised that when he'd gone as far as the Left Luggage window and arrived to find himself alone. He returned to Draco's side. 'Are you all right?' he asked. 'Your face has gone all blotchy.'

'What? No-- shut up, Potter.' Draco pressed his hands to his flaming cheeks. 'No, just-- let's go in.'

Curious, Harry followed Draco's gaze, which lingered even as Draco made an effort to herd Harry toward the store. There didn't seem to be anything unusual in that direction, though, merely a bit of an alcove beneath a burnt-out light, and Remus slipping out of the shadows with Sirius behind him, looking a little mussed and grinning like a cat who'd got the cream, the canary, and the catnip all at once.

'Draco,' Remus greeted them, as they met by the storefront. 'You're not here alone, are you? I'd thought your father would escort you to the train.'

'My father has business in town,' Draco said, but a certain squeaky airlessness interfered with his haughty delivery. Remus looked him askance, and Harry could only shrug.

'Hullo, little cos.' Sirius stepped forward to ruffle Draco's hair, managing to get it standing up straight with a quick rub and then frowning down at his sticky fingers before wiping them on his trousers. 'Well, won't do that again.'

The assault on his grooming restored Draco's usual temper. He whipped out a comb to re-flatten his hair, scowling with great ferocity, and icily informed Sirius, 'I'm not little and we're only second cousins, Mr Black.'

'Lord Potter, short stuff.' Sirius attempted a second run at Draco's hair, but let himself be fended off with Draco's comb. 'All right, all right. You'll be signed up for duelling club this year, I expect.'

'They're bringing back the duelling club?' Draco asked with real interest, though he kept a sullen arms' length distance between himself and Sirius as he completed his brushing. He offered Harry the comb, with a meaningful frown, and Harry just as resolutely ignored him.

'It's been discussed,' Remus answered, 'but there will be more information forthcoming in due time, when we're properly on school grounds. Draco, do you need any assistance with your trunk?'

'No, the house elf's got it.'

'Then we're ready to go through to the platform.' Remus had already fetched a handcart, and Harry's trunk and broom as well a few boxes of books familiar from the attic in Beddgelert and a briefcase embossed with flaky gold letter as belonging to 'RJ Lupin' waited on it. 'I hope you don't mind if I hitch a ride with you on the Express? Since we're going in the same direction anyway, and I enjoy a bit of leisurely travel now and then. I won't do anything so dire to your reputation as force you to sit with a professor, though.'

That appeased Draco before he could raise a polite objection. Harry was glad, himself, not so much because he didn't like to talk to Remus, but had been looking forward to unrestrained chatter with his friends, and you could never say things in front of adults without them asking questions, even if they promised not to.

But-- 'Aren't you coming?' Harry asked, surprised to realise Sirius had brought no bags or trunks. He hadn't noticed that as they were leaving the cottage. 'I thought...'

'I'll be around,' Sirius promised. 'But there's things to start doing now I've had a bit of a holiday with you lot in Wales. The Wizengamot session's only got a few months left, but I intend to sit it now I'm re-instated. And there's some other silly rot to deal with-- I want to sell dear ole Mum's bleaky London house, since Remus won't let me burn it down, but I have to remove anything Dark first, and, knowing my beloved kinfolk as I do, I'm sure the place is littered with unspeakable spells. That'll take me most of winter, I'm sure. But you'll see plenty of me! And mind you pay attention when duelling club's announced-- keep an eye on who's listed as sponsor! Oh, I've got tricks and then some to teach you, my lads!'

'It's nearing time,' Remus said, nodding to the large signs overhead announcing the arrivals and departures. The Hogwarts' Express wasn't listed, of course, but at quarter to eleven, it was nearing launch. So Harry bade his godfather an unexpected good-bye, accepting a hug that attempted to squeeze him into two Harrys, top and bottom neatly sliced apart by Sirius's strong arms. Draco got a last-second lunge that mussed his hair again, and Remus got a long silent look, their hands twining under the cover of the stacked cart.

'You've gone red again,' Harry told Draco, who glowered without quite meeting his eyes.

'Harry!' It was Ron, who broke from the whirlwind arrival of the Weasley clan, running dangerously close to the minute. Mrs Weasley, spearheading the charge through King's Cross, hollered Ron's name in a voice like thunder, followed by a sweeter, 'Oh, hello, Harry dear,' that didn't slow her so much as a step. Mr Weasley, running to catch up with Ginny, lingered just long enough for Remus to swing their cart about and benefit from the wake of the roaring Weasley steamer, confused crowds of Muggles parting before them out of sheer self-preservation. Mrs Weasley stood panting at the wall where Platform 9 3/4 was reached, counting heads as her children plunged through with their carts. Ginny, who had never gone through on her own, looked terribly uncertain, but she took a deep breath and did it all at once, eyes fixed wide so as not to miss her trajectory. Somehow in the chaos Remus got pushed through with the cart, Mrs Weasley stopped to assist a panicking boy who looked barely old enough to be a first year, Mr Weasley followed them through, and Ron stood shaking his head watching all of it from a safe distance. 'Every year,' he said.

'Master Draco?'

Harry looked round automatically. No-one appeared to be paying them any notice; the station officer who minded their area was checking his pocket watch and speaking into a large walkie-talkie cabled to his hip. Oh. Harry looked down, and spotted the house elf huddled behind their barrier, peering about the corner with goggly eyes.

'Where'd you put my things, Dobby?' Draco asked it, as Ron swung his cart around and lined it up with the wall.

'In Master Zabini's compartment.' The elf's long ears drooped, flattened tight to his skull like arms wrapping about him, the tips circling back to momentarily shade his eyes. 'Master Draco, oh, Master Draco, Dobby begs you not to go...'

Draco heaved a heavy sigh. 'I'm not having this argument again. I'm going, Dobby.'

'What's this?' Ron wondered.

'Nothing. Go, Weasley, we'll be late.'

Ron nodded, and pushed hard to get his cart moving. He had just reached a good speed when the nose of his cart hit the wall-- but instead of going through, it came to a screeching halt. Ron went tumbling, landing in a sprawl with his trouser leg torn and a big bloody scratch showing as he howled in hurt surprise.

'Ron!' Harry darted to help, and even Draco came to lend an arm, embarrassed, apparently, by something that wasn't Ron. 'Dobby!' Draco hissed. 'Cease this immediately!'

'What happened?' Ron felt the back of his head where he'd fallen and smacked it a bit. 'Ow, that really hurt.'

Dobby let off a little wail like a kettle hitting the boil, and pounded his lumpen skull with two small fists. 'Dobby is so very sorry, Master Draco, but Dobby must protect you from all danger!'

'He's been doing this every day since I got back from Sweden,' Draco complained. 'What did you do to the barrier, Dobby?' Draco felt along the wall with both hands, but they stayed flat on the brick, no longer an illusion to protect the passage onto the platform. 'Dobby, make it work again or I'll punish you!'

'Don't punish him,' Harry protested, just as Dobby began to yank on his long ears, stretching them painfully. 'Stop, please!'

'Ohhhh, Harry Potter!' Dobby cried, one hand covering his mouth as the other pulled his ear so hard his head tilted ninety degrees to the left. 'Master Draco and his best friend Harry Potter must not go to Hogwarts! Master Draco and greatest wizard Harry Potter and-- Master Draco's other friend--'

'Ron Weasley,' Ron said, now pouting at the torn elbow of his shirt. 'If I tell you I'm not Malfoy's friend, can I go through?'

'Why don't you want us to go to Hogwarts?' Harry asked, trying to insert a moment of rational calm into proceedings, for they were running out of time. If they delayed much longer, the Express would leave without them.

'There is danger at Hogwarts, ohhhh, very bad bad bad,' Dobby said, punctuating each repetition with a vicious pinch at the thin muscle of his arm, leaving big splotchy bruises behind. 'Very big danger, Master Draco--'

'Draco, make him stop!'

'Oh, stop already,' Draco said, and Dobby gave up torturing himself with a sniffle. 'He's been at this for weeks and he still won't tell me what's so dangerous! If there really is anything wrong at Hogwarts and you haven't just gone mad, you stupid elf.'

'Dobby cannot tell!' Dobby cried, and burst into gulping sobs. He faced the wall and began to beat his head against it.

Harry put a stop to that. Not only was it horrifying to watch, they were drawing attention from Muggles, and the station officer was coming towards them with a wand, subtly dispelling the crowds with whispered charms. 'Dobby,' Harry said, grabbing the elf away from the wall and holding him firmly in place as he squirmed, 'Dobby, this isn't the right time. Or the cleverest, you know. When they find out we're not on the Express, they'll just send someone to fetch us later, and we'll still get to Hogwarts tonight.'

Dobby froze. 'Dobby did not think of that,' he admitted mournfully, his ears sagging in defeat. Then he gasped. 'Not if they does not know where you are to be fetching!' Beaming, he snapped his fingers, and the world turned inside out.

Or so it felt. It was a bit like the bad Floo Harry had had when he'd wound up in Knockturn Alley, a whirligig that spun and spun in an ever-tighter spiral that spat him out suddenly into broad daylight. Harry got off a yelp of surprise when he discovered himself not on land at all, but falling through the air. At least it wasn't a long fall. He landed face-first in a haystack, sinking down with the weight of his fall til he was half-buried.

Once he got over the shock of it, it was quite a lot of thrashing to work himself free, and he sort of tumbled-and-slid on his belly down the side of the haystack, crawling awkwardly to the ground and sneezing relentlessly from all the mould and dust. He wiped his dripping nose on his sleeve for lack of anywhere clean to do it, and lurched upright. 'Draco? Ron? Dobby?'

'Here!'

Harry ran for the voice. He was in a big field, an endless field so far as he could tell, but there were several stacks of hay twice as tall as he gathered all together. 'Keep talking!' he cried, trying to determine which stack had been cratered by the unexpected arrival of a schoolboy.

'I can't bloody see anything and--'

'This tastes disgusting!'

Ron, that first one, and definitely Draco for the second. Harry dived toward a bit of shifting hay and got hold of Ron's leg, pulling until Ron got enough purchase in the hay to flip himself over and roll out. Harry gave him a quick pounding on the back as he coughed, but hurried to get at Draco next, dragging him out and catching a second tumble himself, as Draco misjudged his jump and flattened both of them to the grass. The three of them fought their way upright, giggling and sneezing and then slowly quietening into uneasy silence.

Harry broke it. He said, 'Er, I don't suppose any of us know where we are?'

 

 

**

 

 

Calling for Dobby didn't work, as the elf was clearly convinced he'd done right in sending them away with nothing but the clothes on their backs. They each had their wands, but couldn't agree whether the Ministry would consider they were allowed to use magic on what was technically not quite yet the first day of school, only the day students arrived at school, or at least not on the Express which, Draco said, his father told him belonged to the school and was therefore an extension of school property so far as the rule forbidding underage magic was concerned. Even if they could have agreed on that, however, none of them knew any spells that would really be of use. Harry had only ever sent post by owl, and Ron shamefacedly admitted he'd never been out of the reach of parents or teachers with an urgent message to send. Draco said there were ways, but all of them required things like ancient family rings or pre-set portkeys, none of which they had.

Harry settled their useless bickering. 'We walk,' he said. 'If there's hay, that means we're on a farm, and if we're on a farm there's farmers.'

Then they spent ten minutes arguing which direction to go. They voted two-on-one to go east, except that the sun was nearly directly above them and east wasn't all that easy to figure out. Harry again settled the argument, showing the two Wizarding boys how to play roshambo, and Draco won three out of five rounds, and declared they would go left. So off they set. They walked, and they walked, and they walked, squinting up at the bright-lit sky, pointing out the occasional flock of birds, seeking any blob on the horizon that might be a house. It was hot, with no trees to shade them, and before long Draco was complaining under his breath about blisters and Ron of a headache, but Harry was more worried they didn't have any water.

It seemed they had been walking for hours, but Harry wasn't entirely sure he remembered where the sun had been before, and wasn't sure if it had gone to noon and was now climbing down, or if he'd got turned about and it was still eleven o'clock. They had each stripped off as much of their clothes as they could, and Draco's skinny shoulders were stained pink with sunburn and Ron was awfully sweaty and limping besides from the injuries he'd had back at King's Cross. Harry could feel the skin on his back go tight and prickly from exposure, and his glasses kept steaming up as they trudged ever onward. His mouth was horrid dry, his tongue shrivelled. The fields they trekked were variously green or brown depending on the growth of whichever wheat or vegetable was growing, some stalks taller than the boys and necessitating someone lead and the others follow exactly in their footsteps so as not to lose each other, and other times just falling into the natural rows between leafy plants. Twice, three times they crossed low walls of piled rock that indicated boundaries, so far as Harry knew, but though they debated following one of the walls to see if it led anywhere, Harry was fairly sure they were only on the outer edges of property, not paths back to the houses of the owners. So on they went.

'My father--' Draco started, mustering a pale shadow of his usual arrogance, interrupted by a snotty inhale from a clogged nose. 'My father'll free that wretched elf for sure.'

'Wouldn't that be good?' Harry asked, mopping his brow on his bare arm. His hair was stringy and dripping. 'I mean, for Dobby.'

'House elves have to have houses,' Ron said, not at all as patiently as he normally was explaining Wizarding things to Harry. 'They have to work or they die.'

'So... wait, so freeing them--'

'If he can find another house to take him in, he'll survive, but I hope Father tells everyone what a horrible elf he is so no-one will take him on,' Draco said nastily.

'What's he think is so dangerous anyway?' Ron grumbled.

'Dunno,' Harry said. 'Last year there was Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest murdering unicorns, and Voldemort hiding in Quirrell trying to get resurrected, and Voldemort trapping Dumbledore and Mr Flamel in the Pensieve--'

'Well, so you fixed all that,' Ron said expansively. 'What's left, then? Snape being a troll in Potions? That's the same as last year. Lockhart doing something ruddy in DADA? Same as last year, too, and I don't think he's so much dangerous as ridiculous.'

'Maybe it's not a teacher.'

'Would make for a nice change of pace,' Draco muttered.

'Did he say anything else? About the danger at Hogwarts?'

'I don't know, Harry, a fat lot of nonsense, that's all!' Draco huffed and made an effort to concentrate, scrunching his sun-reddened nose. 'He started in on it as soon as I got home from Sweden. He came creeping in on me at night-- he does that sometimes to clean, but he never wakes me when he does. Now he sits on my bed and cries and puts up a scene like at the station and tells me I mustn't go back to Hogwarts because something bad is going to happen.'

' _Is_ going to happen, or has already happened?'

Draco paused. 'Is going to,' he clarified hesitantly. 'I think. Well I don't usually talk to house elves, do I? I don't know why he's so concerned about me. He's Father's elf, really, not mine. He didn't even protest when Father sent me away,' he added in a resentful undertone. 'Happy about it, even. Thrilled.'

Ron caught Harry's eye. He'd thought the same thing, then. 'Draco,' Harry said gently, 'did he say anything then about why he was happy you were going to Europe?'

Draco's head came up. 'You think...'

Rather surprisingly, Ron interrupted, sparing Draco having to say it. 'So what danger could be at both Hogwarts and Malfoy Manor?' he asked. Then, even more surprisingly, he added, 'Is he at all worried about your dad? I mean-- I mean, your dad being  _in_ danger, not, you know. Not  _being_ the danger.'

Considering Ron had heaped bitter imprecations on the entire Malfoy clan at the slightest opportunity last year, Harry was quite impressed at this evidence of restraint and sensitivity. Draco, for his part, didn't leap on the insult to his father, though his shoulders went tight and pulled in, and his head fell low again.

'Dunno,' Draco said at last, and if he were lying, Harry couldn't see enough of his eyes to tell.

Anyway, the rumble of something far away suddenly registered with him. That was a motor. 'Car!' Harry exclaimed, and broke into a run with new energy. 'Car! Come on, we've got to be close!'

Closer than they'd known. The gentle incline had been noticeable mostly as a drag at his calf muscles, but he was suddenly hurtling down the other side of that slope, and from the unexpected height of it he could see a road that had been invisible when they'd been slogging uphill. And that was a car! Harry waved his arms above his head and shouted, and heard the other two behind him doing the same, and they ran as if a herd of Voldemorts were chasing them. Ron with his long legs pulled ahead at the last stretch, and flung himself out into the path of the car with no regard for the possibility it might not stop for him-- Harry's heart leapt up into his throat as boy and car collided-- but no, it was only nearly. The car slammed to a stop only an arm's length from Ron's vulnerable body.

'Oh,' Ron said faintly, as Harry caught him up and dragged him out of the way, just in case. 'Only I've never seen Dad's Anglia actually work.'

The driver was altogether as upset about it as Ron, rolling down her window and thrusting out her head. 'Are you all right?' she was demanding. 'Oh, love, I didn't see you-- I had the music turned up-- Where've you lot come from? I didn't think there was anything out here but sheep!'

That was a long story. Harry, as the most experienced with Muggles, took charge, going to the lady's window with his most winning smile. 'Hullo, Miss, I'm Harry. These are my friends Ron and Dra- Dray. We got lost and you're the first person we've seen all morning. Do you know where we could go to find a phone?'

'Well if you'd gone on that way, you might've walked straight to the coast, I should think. You've been out in this sun all day, have you? Your parents must be frantic.' She unlatched the doors and waved them on. 'Get in, boys. Least I can do after giving you a fright like that is drive you to the pub. We're about ten minutes from Bossiney.'

Harry took the front passenger seat, reasoning he could keep attention off Ron and Draco's obvious lack of familiarity with vehicles. They imitated him well enough, sliding across the back bench and watching anxiously as Harry carefully demonstrated the safety belts. The woman was about Tonks's age, perhaps twenty-five or so, and the music she was playing on the radio was some kind of rock band, all screeching guitar and raspy wobbling voices. 'Bossiney?' Harry asked delicately, not sure how to get more information about where they were without explaining how they'd arrived without knowing where they were.

'Oh, you poor lambs. School trip?' She kept her window rolled down, despite the extra bother of field dust coming in, perhaps because the confined space of the car made it clear they'd all got rather smelly exercising so hard. Harry tried to wrestle back into his shirt, grimacing as it stuck to his sweaty back.

'Yes, Miss,' he said. 'And if we could just use the phone, we can ring our, er, my grandfather,' he said, suddenly recalling that there was a telephone at the cottage in Beddgelert, even if Glynnie was the only one who'd ever used it. And Lyall might not hear it ringing, if he was asleep as he often was in the afternoon, but Harry supposed he'd clear that hurdle when he got to it.

'Oh, but your teachers have got to be looking for you, haven't they? I'm sure they'll have rung up the police by now-- that's your first call, to make sure they know the search is off and you're safe.'

'The police?' Harry stammered, alarmed by this, though neither Ron nor Draco knew that word and the bureaucratic nightmare it entailed. Muggle police would certainly not have been rung up for the disappearance of three young wizards, if anyone had even noticed yet they weren't on the Express. Harry had already imagined it-- Blaise Zabini, in whose compartment Dobby had placed Draco's trunk, would only think Draco was with Harry, and Hermione and Neville would think Harry had got waylaid by Slytherins, and Ron had never sat with his brothers who wouldn't feel responsible for his whereabouts, and Remus had promised to leave them alone and so wouldn't even be looking, if he hadn't noticed them missing from the platform. Maybe by now someone had started to suspect, but it wouldn't all get put together til everyone was at Hogwarts and the three of them failed to sit down to the Welcome Feast.

'PC Penrice, he's the gent around these parts, I'm sure he'll know all about it already,' the woman went on, navigating the twisty lane with confidence despite a number of sharp turns through the tall wheat that reduced visibility to a wall of brown everywhere they looked. 'But we'll go to the pub anyway, you boys look like you could use a round of lemonades, eh?'

She bought them that round, though Harry tried to pay with his small stash of Muggle money, and stood them for lunch as well, freshly-fried fish and a steaming platter of chips that even Draco devoured without complaint. The publican was appalled at their sunburn and fetched a first aid kit to treat them, smearing each of them with lotion and talking at length of oatmeal baths and ginger soaks. Harry split his attention between answering any Muggle-based questions on behalf of his friends and eyeing the payphone visible out the window. The adults were all assured they'd handled everything properly and every move Harry made to get toward the phone was cut off by a well-meaning interference. The arrival of a crew of workingmen just off the afternoon shift finally provided distraction, and Harry darted out the door, made a dash for the booth, and jammed his twenty-p pieces down the coin slot.

'Please pick up, pick up, pick up,' he begged it, listening to the cold ring as it went on, on, on.

Then--

 _'Mr Potter,'_ a nasal voice greeted him, and Harry sighed his relief even as he wondered--

'Professor Snape?' he confirmed hesitantly. What was Snape doing at the cottage in Beddgelert?

_'The very same. You've overturned half of Wizarding Britain, boy, where the blazes are you?'_

'Sir, there was a house elf-- Draco's house elf-- and the barrier, the barrier at Platform 9 3/4-- you know the one?'

_'Nevermind, Potter, save your explanation. Where are you?'_

'Only I'm not totally sure,' Harry admitted small-voiced. 'I think the lady said it was Bossiney? We're at the pub--'

_'The name of this establishment?'_

'Um...' Harry checked. 'It doesn't have a sign, I think. It's just the only pub in town, I think.'

_'You can't narrow it down at all? Do you even know what county you're in?'_

'No? Er, no. Their accents are sort of funny, though.'

 _'Potter--_ ' Snape stopped himself saying anything else, breathing deeply. _'Potter, remain where you are. I'll be along to get you as quickly as possible. Don't do anything to arouse suspicion and_ do not _\-- I repeat,_ do not _\-- draw attention to yourselves. It is not just the Aurors who are seeking you.'_

That put a chill in his spine. 'Sir, my grandfather's all right? Mr Lupin? And Sirius and Remus?'

Snape relented at his fearful tone. A bit. _'Well, but worried. Now go inside and concentrate on making no noise and being very still, Potter.'_

'Sir? I think they rang up the Muggle police.'

_'Did they? Well, that makes things considerably easier, then.'_

Harry had plenty of experience with Snape's many shades of sarcasm, and that did not sound like any one of them. 'It... does?'

_'Yes. Muggles make quite a bit of fuss, and there are ways to filter that fuss usefully, at least for the purposes of finding things, or errant schoolboys. Get inside, Potter. I'll be there shortly.'_

Harry obeyed the moment he'd set the receiver back in its cradle. He hurried inside just to be seated in time to greet the arrival of PC Penrice as promised, who had not been alerted about missing boys and would not be put off determining why he would not have been alerted, growing more and more suspicious of Harry's unravelling story as the minutes ticked on. Harry was sweaty all over again under the man's dour scrutiny, and Draco was fingering his wand in a way that made Harry decidedly nervous. He clamped a hand over Draco's wrist as he repeated, once again, that they were students from a boarding school in Scotland and if their professor hadn't yet called the police it was only because their school didn't like to worry the parents--

'My father's a school governor,' Draco interjected in his most pompous voice, somehow managing to look down his nose at Penrice as the man stood scowling over their corner table. 'When he hears about this--'

'That may work on your professors, young'un, but it don't work on me,' Penrice retorted tartly. 'Now I'm going to ask one more time. Write down your names, addresses, and phone numbers.'

The only Muggle addresses Harry had were for Crowhill Boys' Home and the cottage in Beddgelert, and neither was something he was willing to give up just to stall for time. And he still didn't know where they were, and if he made something up and the policeman looked it up on a map, which he was sure was very easy to do, it wouldn't go over well. But just as he was about to feign the pen being broken in sheer desperation he cast his eyes about the pub, and spotted a photograph framed on the wall.

'What's that?' he asked, abandoning his seat and walking to it. It was small, an old sepia-toned post-card actually, of a ruined castle on a crag precariously perched over a rough sea. 'Tin... tin-ta-gell?'

'Tin- _ta-_ jell,' said Penrice, following. 'Tintagel's just up the road from Bossiney. That's the old castle. There's been a fort there since the Romans, but the castle's mediaeval.' He paused. 'Suppose you weren't here to visit it on your school trip?'

'Ummm, no, just to see a working farm, like I said.' Harry touched the frame, brittle old wood. It was old. 'Tintagel,' he said, tasting the name. 'That's where the sword is, isn't it?'

'Sword?' Penrice chuckled. 'What, King Arthur's sword? You're mixing your legends, son. This is supposed to be Arthur's birthplace, though. Where King Uther disguised himself as Ygraine's husband and satisfied his lust with her, and Merlin came nine months later to spirit away the babe into hiding, the natural-born son of the High King of Britain.'

'Oh,' Harry said, confused. 'No, it couldn't be that sword. Only I thought... I don't know what I thought.'

'Harry.'

He turned. Professor Snape stood in the doorway, wearing one of Remus's corduroy jackets and Muggle denim jeans, not at all the swooping dangerous dungeon bat he usually seemed. He also looked harried, and deeply unhappy with Harry, and combustively furious-- though, curiously, that faded the moment Harry flinched away.

'You wear me out, child,' he said, unknowingly echoing what Sirius had said-- it was only that very morning.

'Sorry,' Harry said helplessly. 'Things just seem to, well, happen that way.'

'Then let us do our best not to run headlong into every available opportunity,' Snape replied drily. 'Draco. Mr Weasley. Wait here. PC Penrice? My name is Professor Snape, representing Hogwarts School of Scotland. I will take responsibility for these lost boys. If I may have a private word?'

Ron polished off the last of the chips. 'Hope we won't miss the feast getting all this sorted,' he said.

Draco gave Ron a look of pure disgust. 'Do you ever think about anything other than food?'

'What?'

Snape returned from the small corridor where he'd been whispering at PC Penrice. The policeman stood blinking owlishly, rubbing his temple and looking about him in odd surprise, as if he couldn't quite recall how he'd arrived or what he'd been doing. With a shrug, Penrice headed for the bar, ordering an ale and taking a stool with his back to the children.

'Come,' Snape said. 'Dumbledore was kind enough to create a portkey for our use. We'll go at once.' He latched a hand onto Harry's shoulder. 'The state of you,' he disapproved. 'It's straight to the Infirmary for you.'

Harry groaned. School hadn't even started yet and he was already in the Infirmary! Life was emphatically unfair sometimes.


	4. New Year's Resolutions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which Adventure Is Selected For Review._

'Move along, move along,' Ron shouted, swiping a path for them through the crowd with his long arms. 'Move on, you lot. It's like you've never seen a hero before.'

'Ron!' Harry hissed.

'Harry, is it true?' someone called out, Harry couldn't tell who.

'Harry, is You-Know-Who really--'

'Ah, there you are, Harry! You know, since you missed my reading at Diagon Alley, perhaps you'd be interested in attending an upcoming Ministry soiree with me!' Lockhart. Harry ducked behind Ron, who shoved him round the corner and swept him away from that particular danger. The crowd of students eagerly piling after him were more determined, however, and it was like wading through stew, all of them swarming around him shouting his name.

'Harry Potter?' A very small boy ducked Ron's swing and jogged alongside them grinning so wide his face was all teeth. He looked faint with delight, as if he were meeting an astronaut and the Queen and Spider Man all in one. 'You're Harry Potter, aren't you? I've read all about you. I think you're _wicked_.'

'What?' Ron squeaked indignantly. 'He's not Dark, you little--'

'He means cool,' Harry interrupted, flushed and hot with embarrassment. 'Er, thanks, um--'

'Colin! I'm Colin Creevey!' The boy thrust a book at him. 'Would you sign it?'

It wasn't a book Harry recognised. He didn't get much more than a glimpse of the cover-- a boy riding a dragon, he thought-- before Ron snatched it away anyhow, using it like a beater's bat to bully Colin Creevey away. 'No, he's not gonna sign things for you, get on. Get on!'

'Maybe a picture? I read all about magical moving pictures, I'm going to develop the film--' Ron threatened him with the book again, and Creevey dodged back. 'I'm a Muggleborn too! I'm from Bristol and my dad's a driver for Tesco and my mum's a teacher and it's wonderful, isn't it? I never knew about magic before, but I thought maybe, you know, all the strange things that always happened around me? Did you think that too? Once when I was really angry at my little brother Dennis-- you think Dennis might be a wizard too?-- once when I was really really mad at him I wished super hard and he had to tell the truth for a whole week before it wore off and he told Mum he was the one who broke the vase and sneaked into the biscuits and pulled Tippy's tail-- Tippy's our dog, she's a beagle, you'd really like her--'

The bell was ringing its warning peal. Ron grabbed Harry by the arm and pulled him along through the crowd, which began to disperse from its tight bubble around Harry as they headed for class. Colin Creevey yelped with his hands clapped to his ears.

'Wowzer!' he shouted. 'That's so loud, don't you think, Harry?' He hadn't so much as taken a breath yet.

' _Go away!'_ Ron growled, and threw Harry through the door to Charms and threw the door shut in Colin Creevey's glowing face.

'Oh, dear,' said Professor Flitwick, looking up from the assignment he was writing on the chalkboard. 'Mr Weasley, I do believe a few of our students might need entry, you know.'

Scowling, Ron reluctantly unlatched the door. He stomped to a stool at the table Neville and Hermione had gone ahead to reserve for them, flung down his rucksack, and sat with his arms folded over his chest glaring at anyone who looked like they might so much as open their mouths. Harry shuffled into place beside him, trying very hard to be invisible as heads craned on necks to peer past Ron. Harry opened his book and ducked his head and tried to hide behind a hand in his hair, covering his scar. Hermione moved her inkpot closer to share with him, and patted his knee with sympathy.

Flitwick cleared his throat. 'Welcome back, my doves. I hope you're all well-rested and ready to dive back in to work. Second-year Charms is my favourite, you know; now we've got the elementary spells patted down, we're ready to try some really quite wonderful things! Wands out, children!'

Harry had never been so grateful for a distraction.

 

 

**

 

 

Even with all the fuss, Snape brought them to Hogwarts well before the Express was due to arrive.

And what a fuss it was. Nearly the entire Auror Corps had been called out, they were to discover, when Remus commandeered a dozen owls from students on the Express to report that Harry, Ron, and Draco had gone missing and no-one had seen them since King's Cross. The hue and cry had gone up immediately, with Rufus Scrimgeour himself leading the search, and, more quietly, the Order of the Phoenix had gone to work as well. That was how Snape had ended out personally checking the Lupin's cottage in Beddgelert-- not that Snape admitted to being a part of the Order, or at least not in so many words. He merely said he had surmised Harry would attempt to return to or at least contact somewhere he knew was safe, and had spent a tense four hours listening to Lyall Lupin ranting and raving. Sirius, Bill, and Tonks had scoured London whilst Remus had stayed on the Express, presenting a calm face and keeping word of the incident from escaping even as the Weasleys and the Malfoys were covertly conveyed to Hogwarts to await word of rescue.

It hadn't even occurred to Harry that anyone might think they'd been kidnapped-- or worse. Snape never said the words _Death Eater_ , but only because Snape caught himself with a click of the teeth. Perhaps Snape didn't wish to frighten them, and Ron didn't seem to catch it, but Draco did, and the paling of his face was what alerted Harry to the meaning behind the silence. It put a pinch of fear into his gut. He realised, quite suddenly, exactly why it was Remus had wanted him disguised when they visited Diagon Alley. It was more than _The Daily Prophet_ 's readership had worried Remus. It was the people who might read headlines about Harry and think to do something about it that had warranted the ruse.

Snape Apparated them to Hogwarts' gates, and walked them through with a drawn wand and one eye canted over his shoulder. Hagrid was there with his big dog Fang, who greeted Harry with a bounding leap, knocking him flat to slobber all over his glasses with enthusiastic licking. Hagrid picked him up, brushed him off, and squished him into a tight hug with arms like leather-smocked tree trunks. He also patted Ron on the head, buckling Ron's knees, and did the same to Draco even though Draco tried to step out of range.

'Yes, yes, we're all quite thrilled,' Snape groused. 'Keep walking. It's a hike back to the castle.'

A knot of tense parents were seated at what would be the Hufflepuff table by night in the Great Hall. When Snape escorted the children in, Mrs Weasley gave a cry and came running, grabbing up Ron in a tearful embrace, ignoring his embarrassed squirms. Mr Weasley was right behind her, though, with Mrs Weasley refusing to let Ron go, Mr Weasley applied himself to warmly greeting Harry and Draco instead, squeezing Harry's shoulder tightly. Mr and Mrs Malfoy had stood from their table, but remained there and waited for Draco to come to them. Draco went at a dignified pace, and bowed. Mrs Malfoy beckoned for him to come closer, but only brushed at his ragged hair with a moue of distaste. They said nothing, at least not as Harry was watching. Draco said nothing to them.

Albus Dumbledore had been sat with them, and now made his presence known with a polite cough and a step forward. 'We are indeed grateful for your safe return, boys,' he said. 'Though I do not think I am alone in wishing to know more about your strange detour.'

'It was the barrier,' Harry said, and at this Mr Malfoy came near at last, and Mrs Weasley released a red-faced Ron. 'When we tried to get through, it stopped us.'

'This would have been just before the strike of eleven?' Dumbledore confirmed, sweeping his long persimmon-coloured robe wide as he seated himself on a Ravenclaw bench. 'Yes, I thought so. The oddest thing occurred then, alerting me something was amiss; Fawkes became quiet agitated.'

'Fawkes?' Harry had been looking forward to a reunion with Dumbledore's phoenix.

'Though I find I cannot so readily understand Fawkes as in times past,' Dumbledore said quietly, 'he more than conveyed his upset. He did not calm until you were, I believe, located by Professor Snape.'

'What happened with the barrier?' Mr Malfoy questioned, though he looked thoughtfully at Dumbledore and only slowly returned his gaze to Harry. 'Some Dark spell?'

'No, it was...' What brought him the idea, Harry could not have said. Maybe it was thinking about Fawkes, or about the reason the for their entire 'detour', as Dumbledore called it. Danger at Hogwarts, and danger that might well have something to do with Draco's father. Suddenly he did not want to say that it was Dobby, the Malfoy's house elf. Dobby would only be in trouble-- and Harry would never find out why Dobby thought they were in danger, because Dobby would be freed or hidden away and they'd never get to ask him anything again.

'It was the oddest thing,' Harry said, echoing Dumbledore's words as his mind raced. 'Mrs Weasley and Remus and all the rest went through, but then.... then, we, er, we just couldn't. We tried, er, Ron tried, but he bounced right off. And we couldn't call for help because we weren't sure if we could use our wands with the Prohibition Against Under-age Magic, and also all the adults were on the other side, so, we... we were pounding on it, you know, and we must all have been touching it at the same time because it sent all of us away at the once.'

'That's not-- ow,' Ron said, as Harry trod on his foot.

'That's not normal, even for magic,' Harry finished hastily.

'Is it even possible to make a stationary object like a wall a Portkey?' Mr Malfoy inquired sharply.

'An already enchanted wall,' Mr Weasley added thoughtfully. 'That barrier's been in place since 1902. The Muggle-repelling charm is recalibrated every year because of the heavy traffic.'

'We should contact the Ministry immediately,' Mr Malfoy told Mr Weasley. 'I want the name of whatever brainless baboon is responsible for that recalibration-- what fool would fail to notice tampering of this extent?'

'It's entirely possible the tampering took place after the annual check-up.'

'And no-one monitors it?' Mrs Malfoy spoke up in an icy tone. 'A single barrier between Muggle environs and Magical in an area you've just admitted receives so many impacts it must be renewed yearly? With the most vulnerable members of our society at the mercy of anyone clever enough to hex a _wall_?'

The argument went on over Harry's head, but one person was curiously silent. Snape. Who, Harry remembered, too late, had already been told about Dobby's interference at the barrier. Harry was sure he'd said it was a house elf, the Malfoy's house elf. Maybe Snape didn't recall it? He'd stopped Harry explaining in favour of finding them quicker. But Snape never forgot anything, not a single thing. And he was watching Harry with narrowed eyes. He knew Harry was lying.

'I'm sure the Chief Auror will fully investigate,' Dumbledore said, declaring a peaceful end to their dispute, and giving Harry something more to worry about. 'Til then, the children are safe here. And, I have no doubt, quite hungry.'

'The Muggles fed them,' Snape piped up at last, just as Ron enthusiastically said 'Starving!'

'Muggle food?' repeated Mr Weasley, with interest, and Mrs Malfoy, with great misgiving.

Their trunks had been retrieved from King's Cross and the parents were eventually persuaded the danger was past, so Harry, Ron, and Draco were left to occupy themselves with only Snape for supervision-- he set them to doing lines, which Harry understood to be a punishment for his lie. But Snape was pacing and grumbling and answering owls as they arrived, so under cover of their hunched shoulders the boys passed notes back and forth. The first one came from Draco, in elegant script:

_Why didn't you tell them about Dobby?_

Harry slid the note under his lines so just the end poked out, and wrote, _Dobby said the danger was at Hogwarts._

Ron intercepted it. He scratched out, _But we're here, so what's he going to do next, you reckon? He could magic us off to Africa next and who'd bloody know?_

Africa. Antarctica, even, if Dobby really wanted them far away. He supposed there was nothing stopping it, once Dobby realised they'd been found and brought to Hogwarts after all. He wrote, _We'll tell Remus the truth. And Snape._

 _Snape?_ wrote Draco.

As if he knew they were discussing him, Snape came swooping back to the table. He wasn't nearly so frightening without his bat-like black robe. Harry hid the note and bent his head over his lines. He had finished nearly a foot of 'I will be on my very best behaviour all year', though his lines were beginning to slant and wander as his hand cramped.

'To the showers, all of you,' Snape mandated. 'Your odour alone will give away the adventure. Be dressed and presentable in time for the Sorting. If I must come looking for you, I'll have you in detention this very night, on my word.'

Perhaps because there were two of them and Draco couldn't conspire with himself, Snape escorted Harry and Ron back to Gryffindor Tower. He didn't go so far as to stand in the baths with them, but he was lingering just outside the door, tapping a foot impatiently, when the boys emerged in their towels. He descended the stairs to the common room as Harry dressed quickly, donning his uniform and the long black robe all students wore. Harry made an effort to comb his hair, not wanting to risk any commentary about it, but it wouldn't be tamed. He stopped Ron and fixed his tie before they went to face their fate.

But, strangely, Snape didn't actually ask them any questions. He had another tactic entirely. 'Flashing those puppy eyes doesn't work on me, Potter,' he informed Harry, looking down his hooked nose at the boys. 'I presume you had reasons for withholding the truth.'

That wasn't a question. It was more like a command. Harry shuffled in place. 'Yessir.'

'And you have learnt from your experience last year that withholding crucial information out of a misplaced desire to solve mysteries yourself is, at best, egotistical idiocy, and, at its worst, deadly ignorance?'

Harry deflated. 'Yessir,' he mumbled.

Snape had only to raise an eyebrow. 'Then talk,' he said succinctly.

So Harry told the whole story. There was little enough to tell, though Snape drew him out on the details of how they'd found the Muggle woman with the car and what they'd told the policeman at the pub. Not that it mattered what they'd told, since Snape had Obliviated the man.

'I suppose I need not point out to you of all people that Obliviation is a tool that should be used sparingly,' Snape said then. 'I will leave it to others to defend the ethics of tampering with the mind, but it is never done without risk, to the individual Obliviated and to the wizard who decides what must be forgotten. Your actions have resulted in a man being denied his own memory. That will not spare him if someone goes seeking information he no longer has. The Dark Lord never scrupled to tear apart the mind of anyone who might have some small clue he desired-- that is why Obliviation became a popular tool during the war. How many hundreds of wizards, much less Muggles, walk about today with only a portion of what they ought to remember I could not number, but it is far too high.'

Harry had been Obliviated by Professor Quirrell more than once-- or so he had been told. He didn't like it one bit, and liked even less that he'd been responsible for PC Penrice losing some of his memories, even if Harry couldn't have prevented it and hadn't wished it on him. He dug a toe into a threadbare spot on the carpet. 'I'm sorry, Professor,' he managed, through a tight throat.

Amazingly, Snape relented. 'Rest,' he said at last. 'You have an hour or so before the Express arrives. If I must be so explicit, let me remind you that you are not to discuss this incident with anyone-- although you will, I don't doubt, so I don't know why I bother. Perhaps I should remind you instead to be clever in your choosing: if you must discuss it, tell only those who absolutely need to know.' He turned to go, and looked back. 'Weasley, tie your shoes. Have a _little_ pride, if you please.'

Draco must have had a scolding too, if not a fuller interrogation, for he looked miserable and irate when they reunited with him at the six o'clock bell. He shrugged off Harry's attempt at engagement and stood at his Pureblood best posture, nose docked high in the air and jaws set like marble. Harry gave him up for the evening when the sound of stamping feet and excited thunder approached the Great Doors, and then in came the tsunami of Hogwarts' students returning for the new year. It was easy to slip into the crowd as if he'd always been part of it. He let the taller, older students in the lead shelter him as he slipped through, looking for someone he knew; he fell in step with Terry Boot from Ravenclaw, who was already at a book and seemed only mildly surprised to glance up and find Harry with him.

'Hiyas,' Harry said. 'Good summer?'

'Yeah, it wuz alrigh',' Boot said. 'You, Potter?'

Harry thought for a moment it might be a question about the headlines in the papers, but then reconsidered. Boot wasn't the sort to try and trip him up with innocent-seeming questions. 'Grand,' Harry said finally, 'most of it. I live with my godfather now.'

'Oh. You didn't before?'

'No, somewhere else,' Harry said vaguely, as he always did whenever the subject of his mysterious origins arose. Few in the Wizarding World knew Harry had been brought up at a Muggle orphanage-- few Muggles knew it, for that matter, for in the Muggle world Harry was invisible and unimportant. Sometimes he rather preferred it that way.

'That's nice, then,' Boot decided, and Harry smiled.

Boot's general indifference to conversation was not shared by the majority of their fellow students. Harry heard his name called out-- he thought it might be Neville-- and heads began to turn. Someone stopped ahead of him, and was run into by the girl behind, and that created something of a domino affect, rippling out to trip up those behind until the entire crowd stumbled to a halt. Harry found himself surrounded by a ring of alarmingly close-pressed faces, all eagerly shouting out at him.

'Harry! I saw in the papers what happened last year!'

'Potter, is it true?'

'Harry, did you really--'

'Is your godfather really Sirius Black?'

'Did you know Black didn't kill all those Muggles?'

'Was it really You-Know-Who?'

That plunged everyone into silence as suddenly as if they'd been spelled. Harry cringed back against Boot, struck dumb by the weight of their expectation.

He cleared his throat. 'Er, yeah,' he said. 'It was.'

'What's all this?' Professor McGonagall was attempting to breach the tide, stuck back by the Doors and unable to progress further. 'All of you, move along! Move along-- Prefects, get this lot moving!'

'You heard the Professor!' That was Percy, officious and determined. He had told Harry in Diagon Alley that sixth year was the most important year of all, excepting seventh, and also excepting fifth which lined you up properly for sixth, which meant you had to do well in fourth, but the upshot was that he wanted desperately to be Head Boy in his year and that meant he had to shine his hardest all throughout sixth. He already took his duties as Prefect as seriously as a Wizard's Oath, and groans of disappointment only put steel in his back. 'I want this hall cleared immediately!' he hollered, in a passable imitation of his mother's best bellow. 'Gryffindors, at attention! Hufflepuffs, you queue up here, Slytherins beside them, Ravenclaws, just so. Orderly and silent!'

It was probably due less to Percy's talent for organising than the scent of the Welcome Feast being plated in the Great Hall, but, either way, the student body of Hogwarts obeyed, huddling into more or less orderly and silent queues by House. Harry hurried to the very back of the Gryffindor queue, chased along by the twins who helpfully called out his location for anyone interested, til they lost sight of him. Percy had placed the Gryffindors against the wall, where they could do less damage, and Harry was bundled behind a suit of outlandish armour by Ron, who had found Hermione and Neville as well.

'Where were you?' Hermione demanded straight away, which indicated Ron had wisely kept the answer to himself in the midst of the crowd. Harry only shook his head, and Hermione folded her arms over her chest in a pout, but didn't press him.

It was interesting to watch a Sorting now he wasn't participating in it, but Harry couldn't keep his mind on it. Remus had come in after the train had been fully emptied, slipping into the Hall with Hagrid and standing mostly unnoticed beside that great bulk. He searched the crowd tensely til he spied Harry, and heaved a big breath, his shoulders falling. He looked quite worn out, and Harry felt badly for his worry. He was sure someone must have told Remus when Harry had been found, the way they'd told the Malfoys and the Weasleys, but that was different than seeing it for himself. Remus managed a small smile before the Sorting ended. Harry joined the applause, which doubled as a cheer for the Headmaster, who rose to the podium at the head table.

'Welcome, welcome,' Dumbledore said, 'welcome all. We begin our year renewed and rejuvenated by a sweet and profitable summer. We have the joy of new company, who shall shortly become new friends, and the joy of our annual reunion with those we have come to love as brothers and sisters. I should also like to introduce new members of your teaching staff, who will be your stalwart guides through the mysteries of the metaphysical. Most of you are already acquainted with Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, who has kindly agreed to come on full-time for Defence Against the Dark Arts.'

There was considerable applause at this; Lockhart had gained quite a following in the final months of the previous schoolyear, and his fans were all the more enflamed after his new book had come out. Lockhart bowed modestly, waving both hands to quieten the cheers, his _Witch Weekly_ award-winning grin on full display.

When that had died down again, Dumbledore added a polite tap of his palms, and went on. 'To the post of Care of Magical Creatures I am pleased to announce Professor Remus Lupin, late of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic in France, amongst his other extensive experience.'

After the ringing greeting for Lockhart, it was a floundering bit of delayed courtesy for Remus, who was, after all, unknown to nearly everyone. Those few who knew him, mostly the Weasleys and Harry's friends, tried to fill the empty quiet, but it was sparse and brief. Remus acknowledged it from his stance against the wall with an amused little nod.

'As always, your Heads of House are as follows: Minerva McGonagall for Gryffindor, Pomona Sprout for Huffplepuff, Filius Flitwick for Ravenclaw, and Severus Snape for Slytherin. I am Albus Dumbledore, most honoured to be your Headmaster. Looking out on your bright young faces I am put in mind of an old memory...'

Harry glanced about at the others. A few waited with interest, others with confusion. Dumbledore twirled the long hairs of his beard about a finger, reminiscing with a dreamy expression, and forgetting entirely to share the memory with his audience.

'Ah, for days long past,' he finished happily. 'Well, to the feast.'

The house elves had performed a masterful feat as always, providing mountains of delectable foods for all tastes. Ron reached greedily for browned goose, roasted potatoes, spoonfuls of everything from peas and onions to turnips and carrots, devilled kidneys and liver swimming in gravy, four varieties of curry and tureens of savoury stews. Harry's favourite chicken in sage sauce and brussels sprouts were plentiful, and pudding was much the same. He was full to bursting well before the feast concluded, and sat sipping piping hot pumpkin juice quite contentedly when Hermione finally seized the moment.

'Harry,' she whispered intently, 'where were you? You weren't on the Express, were you? Only I saw Professor Lupin looking for you, and he was worried, and he never came back to say you'd been found.'

'It's a long story,' he murmured in return. A quick look about showed no-one paying them any particular mind. 'It was Draco's house elf. He wouldn't let us through the barrier at King's Cross Station.'

'Draco's house elf?'

'Shh.' Harry scanned the head table. Snape was busy trying to ignore Lockhart, who had evidently kept up a running narration all throughout their dinner and was even now regaling the other staff with what Harry thought had to be the subject of his book-- Harry had heard his name several times in Lockhart's boasting voice. Remus had never gone to sit with the other teachers, Harry noticed, as there were no empty places at the head table. 'He-- the house elf-- he said there was danger at Hogwarts.'

Neville had put his head in to listen as Harry whispered. He frowned at this. 'Again?' he asked plaintively.

'Did he say what?' Hermione asked.

'No. He said he couldn't tell us.'

'That would have been too easy, I suppose,' she sighed. 'But you're all right?'

'We're all right.'

'Still, if there's a danger here, we ought not to discount it.' Hermione elbowed Ron for his attention, and he looked up with a forkful of treacle tart dangling from his lips. 'We should have a meeting,' she told them all softly.

'A meeting?' Neville wondered.

'Of the Order,' Hermione nodded.

'The Order of the--' No, Harry realised. Not the Order of the Phoenix. Of Jupiter.

Hermione nodded officiously. 'I'll get word to the others,' she promised, and unearthed a Muggle journal from beneath her robe and a pink gel pen, with which she immediately began to write. 'Tonight's impossible, the prefects will all be watching, but it must be within the first week,' she decided. 'And we'll need a place we can all meet. I've thought of several alternatives this summer, more secure than our table in the Library. We need for privacy, so we can plan without untimely interruption. And we'd best stake it out quickly, clubs will be starting up, and we'll need more time than ever for homework. And we absolutely must start up Latin Revision again, Neville. I worked on my tenses all summer but the broken verbs catch me every time, I have a list of questions the length of my arm for you!'

'Oh, uh, good?'

'Welcome back,' Ron said, rather cheerily. 'You know, summer was awfully boring somehow. I wouldn't mind a spot of adventure.'

'Tramping around Cornwall was enough for me,' Harry said, but no-one was much interested in his opinion, judging by the eager expressions all round him. Even Neville perked at the thought. Harry sighed.

 

 

**

 

 

Harry had been warned by Remus not to expect things to be the same as at home-- it would be much more like Crowhill, Remus had said, where Harry was had been welcome to visit Remus in his office once in a while but otherwise only to see professors in their classes or at meals. But Remus had not been at breakfast any more than he'd been at dinner, and so Harry embarked on the first day of classes without a chance to speak to him.

Their schedules were distributed with the eggs and sausages. Harry and his year-mates in Gryffindor would have double Transfiguration with Ravenclaw, a new arrangement that suited Hermione well, as she wanted a study partner not quite so hopeless as most of her House, and double Herbology with Hufflepuff, and double Potions with Slytherins. Charms was still separated out two classes a week per House, but Defence had been consolidated to one class per House and a practical with all Houses together on Thursdays. New to their schedule was Care of Magical Creatures, a single four-hour session on Tuesdays. History of Magic lingered at the edges, a short seminar once a week Monday morning, and a requirement of seven elective lectures over the term from a selection of fifteen, all of mind-numbing topics such as 'Goblin Pretenders from Aethelrod Spearbarb to Mingerst Clawstroke' and 'Witch Hunting: Fact From Fiction'. Ron promptly signed up for the last available at the end of term, but Harry decided to wait for Hermione to tell him which were worth attending.

Harry had got through a helping of toast and kedgeree when the morning owl post arrived. Birds came swooping down from the high windows in the rafters, a whole flock of them carting parcels and parchment, filling their air with their hoots and caws. Harry had rarely received owls his first year, and had no reason to expect an owl now, but he had one. Several, in fact. In fact, it looked like more than half the army of them were headed for his spot at Gryffindor's table.

In moments Harry was surrounded by a flurry of feathers. Beaks plucked at his hair, stabbed at his arms, pecked his breakfast to bits. A brown barn owl climbed his shoulders and a yellow spectacle owl tried to nest on top of his head. A mountain of letters accumulated at his plate, driving Neville and Dean away from their seats and spilling out onto the floor.

A high-pitched whistle like the Hogwarts Express shrilled. As one, the owls scattered. Fawkes claimed Harry's shoulder in their place and preened his glorious scarlet feathers, rumbling a deep-throated song for Harry.

'Hiyas, Fakwes,' Harry whispered. The phoenix rubbed his crest on Harry's cheek lovingly, and Harry stroked his chest. 'Look at you, you're perfect again. And you know it, don't you?'

Fawkes warbled something suspiciously like a chuckle. With a last gentle nip at Harry's glasses, Fawkes launched away, flapping wide golden wings and doing a lazy turn about the Great Hall before he vanished through the window, chasing the last of the owls away.

Lockhart cleared his throat. Harry stifled a groan, and managed a pleasant nod. 'Good morning, Professor.'

'Morning, Harry.' Lockhart beamed at him, then leant down to stage-whisper. 'You'll be wanting a Post Office box, to handle the fan mail.'

'Fan mail?' Harry found that highly disturbing. 'That's what all this rubbish is?'

'Oh, I should imagine so. The usual mix of requests for signatures on various body parts, letters of admiration and adoration, proposals of romantic _rendez-vous_ or marriage-- I recommend you develop a form reply for all of the above, the sort of thing that appreciates the spirit of their words but gently lets them down all the same-- unless, of course, you prefer to accept, hahaha.' Lockhart winked broadly.

'Er, I shouldn't think so,' Harry said. 'Uh, sir, do you happen to know where Professor Lupin's office is?'

'Who?'

'Professor Lupin? He's, uh, he's tall, and, um, his eyes are sort of yellowy, he's the new Care of Magical Creatures--'

'Ah, yes, the rough-looking fellow in the stables! We're all quite curious, you know, we regular staff.' The bell rang for the hour, summoning them all to class. 'Ah, to work,' Lockhart said sagely. 'Tis a great burden, you know, Harry, and a great responsibility, the education of you young people. Eat your vegetables, young man!' he pretended to intone, shaking a finger sternly. 'Get all those vitamins, and get ready to exercise the most important muscle of all!'

'The brain?' Harry guessed dubiously.

'The what? No, Harry, the wand arm!' Lockhart laughed uproariously at what Harry assumed was a joke, though he didn't really get the punchline. Lockhart laughed himself right out of the Great Hall, as it happened. Harry shoved a pile of mail to the floor.

 

 

**

 

 

Monday passed in a blur. In their first year they'd had a week of tests and introductory seminars and such, but second year was, as Dumbledore had said, leaping right in. Harry had four assignments by dinner, lengthy reading selections in his new textbooks, and one essay due by the end of the week, and a set of exercises for Charms. He bided his time between his last class of the day and dinner by practising with Hermione in their common room, with Ron laying on the carpet at their feet refusing to participate 'on the first day of class, really!' Neville ran past in a dither (he had lost Trevor, his pet toad, and someone from Hufflepuff had come to return him) But at the bell, Harry was the first out the portrait hole. He was one of the first to the table, too, though to avoid Colin Creevey he hovered at the far end of the table, not closest to the dais where the teachers were already gathering. He waited to choose a seat, hoping, but Remus never came out to join them. By the time the rest of the students were seated and the elves had begun to fill the tables with food, Harry was sure. Remus was not coming to dinner, and there was not even a place set out for him with the other teachers.

He found the twins by following the loudest chatter at Gryffindor. 'Hullo,' he said, interrupting the two ginger heads tilted together over a large old parchment. Fred-- or George, perhaps, they had just got the same haircut and he couldn't tell them apart at all, specially from behind-- immediately stashed the parchment away when Harry approached, and both turned glowingly innocent faces to him.

'Looking forward to Quidditch, Potter?' George-- no, Fred, he thought, that was probably Fred-- asked. 'Oliver says tryouts aren't for two weeks but he wants a few pickup games soon as everyone's settled in.'

'That would be fun,' Harry approved. 'Fred-- George-- do you know where the stables are?'

'Stables?' said George.

'Stables,' said Fred, rather thoughtfully. 'What would you be wanting in the stables, I wonder?'

'I think that's where Remus is?'

'Oh,' they said in tandem, obviously disappointed. 'Well,' the one on the left added, 'it's not hard to find, but you won't want to bring the crowd with you, so mind you keep out of sight. Here, hand me a bit of paper, I'll draw you a shortcut.'

'Bring the crowd with me?'

'That lot,' George said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. Harry turned to find the entire student body watching, or nearly. Colin Creevey was watching through the lense of a camera, and Harry blinked at the onslaught of a flash bulb popping in his face.

'That was great, Harry!' Creevey exclaimed, lowering the camera to grin at him. 'Harry Potter eating dinner with me! I mean, well, with all of us, of course. But wowzer!'

'Colin, you didn't even know who I was until you found out you're a wizard,' Harry tried to appeal to his sense of logic. Muggleborns had more of it than wizards, in his experience, and Colin Creevey couldn't have taken leave of all of his in one great leap. 'You don't have to act like this.'

'Harry Potter knows your name?' a breathless young witch demanded with something like awe. Creevey nodded so happily his head bobbed on his neck.

Invisibility cloak, Harry thought. Invisibility cloak, maybe forever.

The twins knew their way into every room in Hogwarts, and three ways out of any of them. Their sketch was brief, but deadly accurate: Harry was out of Hogwarts with a minimum of fuss and no-one the wiser within ten minutes of fetching his father's cloak from the Tower. Though the corridors were empty with everyone at dinner, Harry knew Argus Filch, the castle caretaker, would be about, and his mean-tempered cat Mrs Norris, too, and if anyone noticed Harry had gone missing they'd be after him. He hugged the walls, made no unnecessary noise, and took his time rather than rushing-- Sirius said it worked every time, and it certainly seemed to. Harry made it outside by way of a small door with rusty hinges that miraculously did not squeak as he passed through, and then he took a quick pelting run through the light rain down the hillside and out past the Quidditch pitch, til the shadow of the Forbidden Forest loomed near. And there-- a darker shadow there against the old outer bailey, black but for a single light shining through the wooden slats.

This door creaked, but Harry was fairly sure no-one was there to hear it. He slipped the hood of the cloak back, and called timidly, 'Remus? Remus, are you here?'

A pot clanged. 'Harry?' he heard.

The sound had come from the hayloft. Harry ventured further in, unable to resist peering into the stalls as he walked. Thestrals. Bony necks stretched as the strange horse-like creatures bent over troughs full of-- Harry jerked back. The troughs were full of raw meat.

Remus was climbing down a ladder at the end of the stable. He started as he turned to see Harry. 'Well,' he said. 'That's not what I expected.'

'What?'

Remus reached out and tugged at the cloak. 'You're a floating head,' he told Harry, smiling. 'Now what's brought this on? Not that I mind a visit, but aren't you supposed to be at supper?'

'So are you,' Harry said.

Remus grimaced off into the dark. 'Why don't you come up,' he said then. 'At least you won't miss a meal.'

The loft above the stables had been converted into a living area. It was smallish, without walls except for the sloping ceiling, and damp, the rain present as a taste of mould coming off the buckets full of water from the drips escaping between warped slats. A sagging four-poster bed occupied one corner, and a table with a single chair served as desk, kitchen, and the only seat available. A steaming cauldron on a hotplate like they used in Potions proved to be beans. Remus placed a plate before the lone chair, and spooned a slop of beans onto a browned heel of bread. Sausages speared on a fork over the fireplace and an apple baked in foil with butter and cinnamon completed the meal. Remus poured him tea from a thermos, and guided him into the chair.

'This is your dinner?'

'I'm not very hungry,' Remus said, and dragged a crate up to the table for his own seat. 'Though if you don't want the tea, I'll have that.'

Harry pushed the cup toward him. 'This is... where you live? Not in quarters in the school like Snape and the others?'

'Believe it or not, this is a step up from Crowhill.'

Harry didn't smile. 'And you're going to eat here, not in the Great Hall?'

Remus sipped the tea. His finger restlessly circled the rim. 'I'm looking forward to having you in class tomorrow. Be like old times.'

'Is this because Dumbledore knows about what you're doing for Scrimgeour?'

'Professor Dumbledore, and no, Harry, I don't think it is.'

'Is this because--'

'Harry.'

'It's not right,' Harry said.

'Harry,' Remus murmured tiredly. 'It's not a punishment. The other staff...' He drank a large swallow of tea and looked off into the dark. 'The other staff don't feel comfortable with-out certain precautions,' he said, very nearly steadily. 'It's just being careful, that's all.'

'Careful about what?'

It took a long time for the word to come. Remus couldn't seem to look at him, even after the tea was gone, drunk away. 'Contamination,' he said, just barely audibly. 'Eat your dinner, Harry.'

Harry grabbed the cup on its way to Remus's lips. Remus grabbed it back, just before it touched Harry's mouth; the clatter of the crate knocked aside in his rush seemed very loud, and the slosh of the tea, and Remus's harsh indrawn breath. Then Remus pulled Harry in by the shoulder and roughly into his arms.

'It's safe,' Harry said stubbornly. 'You wouldn't-- I know it's safe or you wouldn't--'

'Expose you,' Remus said heavily, and slowly let him go. 'No. I wouldn't. But that doesn't mean it's safe, Harry. If I haven't taught you that yet, then I know what I must this year. Even things that don't seem dangerous can be, and especially for you, Harry. Let's hope a missed train is the worst that happens this year, but hope shouldn't get in the way of proper precautions.'

'I agree.' Harry rubbed his hands dry on his robe. 'So could we meet here? My friends and I. My... er, Knights.'

Remus's pale eyes came up to his. After a moment, they crinkled with a smile that became a grin, and then a laugh. 'Oh, Harry.'

He hunched his shoulders. 'Let me guess. I wear you out.'

'Quite the opposite. Entirely the opposite, actually. I'd be honoured to host you, yes. And I think I can do one better than just provide a venue. If all are in favour, I'd be happy to teach a few spells that aren't in the curriculum. Things you might find very useful, whether it's a normal year or not. Your mum was the cleverest witch of her age, and the rest of us Marauders were-- let's call it "creative". I think your father would love to know you got the fullest education possible at Hogwarts.'

'Really? That would be wonderful.'

'Good. Eat your dinner.'

He cut a sausage in half with the knife, and offered a piece to Remus. They shared the fork back and forth between them.


	5. The New Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which The Only Constant Is Change._

'Unicorns!' Hermione squealed, and took off at a run.

'Unicorns,' Ron repeated scornfully. 'That's girl stuff. I'd druther see a yeti or something cool like that.'

'Yetis are real?' Harry said, rather surprised. He supposed it was no odder than discovering elves were real, even if they weren't the tall long-haired archery experts of Lord of the Rings but small, emotionally unstable butlers. And Remus had won the devotion of at least the female population of his first class, all of whom were melting on the spot in a low constant croon of delight.

Hagrid stood beside the unicorn, one large hand brushing the glistening white coat with a handful of golden straw. The unicorn ate contentedly from the trough containing the rest of the straw, crunching the gold between large molars. Remus was pointing out the teeth to the girls who strained at the edge of the little semi-circle Remus had marked in the grass. Harry thought the unicorn was a clever selection for the first class in another way-- it was very unusual to have all four Houses together at anything but meals, but any natural rivalry had fallen away in place of a simple binary-- girls and boys.

'Unicorns are not tame,' Remus warned a few of the girls who reached yearningly across the distance. 'They are Wild, as many magical creatures are, an expression of magic more ancient than that humans profess. In some senses these creatures exist outside of time; they are untouched by the passing centuries, unchanged, except for one thing. Their habitats have shrunk as humans spread across the world. Once, unicorns could be found on every continent, roaming freely. Then they would have foaled five or six times in their fertile years, and it was not unknown for even mature unicorns to foal again under unique circumstances.'

A hand shot into the air from the crowd of girls. Though Harry couldn't see who exactly it was, he immediately guessed it to be Hermione. Her piping voice confirmed it. 'Professor? What circumstances?'

Harry could see Remus, though, facing the class and smiling his small smile. 'A point for anyone who did the summer reading and can tell me what circumstances might induce extended fertility in magical creatures? Mammals, in particular.'

Hermione's hand shot up again, accompanied by a few more from the girls, and even a few from the boys, mostly, Harry saw, Ravenclaws, who of course had done the reading. Harry had done the reading, unable to escape it with Remus and Snape both overseeing his summer studies, and thought he knew the answer, so put his hand a little reluctantly in the air. Neville, heartened by this, raised his as well. Draco rolled his eyes and put up his.

'Yes, Hermione,' Remus said, though, cleverly anticipating the need for fairness in such a mixed crowd, he specified, 'One such circumstance?'

'Oh.' Hermione's enthusiasm ticked down a notch at this restriction. 'The proximity of a source of Wild magic, sir, like a spring or a cave.'

'Yes, excellent. A point to Gryffindor. Yes, Mr Boot?'

Terry was pleased to be called on, and stood taller as he delivered his reply. 'Professor, not just a source of Wild magic, but a source of human magic. The aggregation of human magic can affect the natural cycles of magical creatures.'

'Well summarised, Mr Boot, I see you've read the supplemental chapters as well. A point to Ravenclaw. Ms Patil-- er, both Ms Patils?'

The twin girls, who had been Sorted into separate Houses last year and subsequently spent a great many days inconsolable over their enforced distance, had gone straight for each other at the head of the hour and now stood hand-clasped, their shoulders only an inch apart. Maybe there was twin magic, Harry speculated idly, because Fred and George Weasley could be like that, always together and miserable when apart, and they finished each others' sentences. The Patil twins were even more in sync: they answered together, in perfect cadence, so you could almost not discern there were two of them. 'Sir, if several generations of magical creatures live in the same place, they can form a kind of bond with their land, and they'll be more fertile there.'

'Perfect, yes. A point to each your Houses. Mr Nott?'

Harry hadn't seen Teddy Nott in the crowd. His voice emerged quietly from between the bulky monoliths that were Crabbe and Goyle. 'The Unspeakables, sir.'

Remus waited, perhaps expected Teddy to expand his answer, but Teddy rarely used more words than absolutely necessary. Remus nodded slowly. 'Yes, Mr Nott, that is very true. And not in the reading at all, so you will take two points to Slytherin. The Unspeakables have, in the past at least, conducted experiments on many species of magical creatures. Some of those experiments came to light during the war, when the Ministry attempted to marshall all forces against Voldemort.'

A little ripple of gasps passed through the crowd. It was most unusual to hear that name spoken aloud. The Slytherins had gone stony-faced and quietly closed ranks into a protective group.

'Ms Abbott?' Remus called.

'Oh.' A girl toward the back of the crowd jumped a little. Her hand had fallen in the momentary silence, and she gulped audibly, trying to recall what it was she'd meant to respond. 'Er, uh, s...selective breeding, Professor Lupin. My uncle breeds horses in the south. You stud the mares properly and you can breed in almost any trait you want.'

'Yes, and a point to Hufflepuff. Muggles have been breeding stock for thousands of years, animals of all kinds in fact. Wizardkind didn't adopt breeding programmes til relatively late, after the Statute of Secrecy was established and prevented trade with Muggles for such items as we always bartered for small charms or potions. Left to our own devices, the Wizengamot of that era passed a number of bills licensing new trades to which wizardkind were unaccustomed. There were a few mis-steps in the early days. Some of the more interesting hybrids we now classify as Beasts were bred in this period. But also some of the great successes, such as the various breeds of winged horses. We should add domestication of Wild creatures into this category, such as owls, crups, and kneazles, and a third category for animals who have been tamed but not domesticated by proximity to wizarding populations-- bringing us back to the subject of today's workshop, unicorns. Though not domesticated, as I have said, unicorns could be considered partially tamed. Can anyone define the difference between taming and domestication? Yes, Mr Zabini?'

Blaise Zabini gave one of his lazy-seeming smiles. Blaise was a favourite amongst the professors and looked to make his newest conquest with a confident delivery. 'Domestication, sir, is a sustained relationship over generations between one group and another, in which one group demonstrates significant influence over the breeding of the other, resulting in a permanent modification of desired traits, whether purposefully or naturally. Taming is conditioned behaviour of a Wild-born creature which reduces its instinct to avoid wizardkind and accept our presence alongside or in its habitat.'

'A direct quote from your text, I believe. A point for your skill in memorisation. But could you describe it for me in your own words, Mr Zabini?'

Blaise's smug grin faltered. 'Er... A, uh, a sustained... uh--'

'No, forgive me. I don't mean to put you on the spot. But let me make myself clear to all of you-- in your first year you were asked to learn by rote a great deal of information in order to provide you a basis for the many spells which will make up your tenure here. But you are second years now, and whilst there will still be a great deal to learn, I will also be encouraging you to _think_ on what you learn. To use your own natural resources to form new understanding, and to practically implement what you think. Mr Zabini, would you please come through to the front? Here beside me, please.'

There was some shifting again. Blaise went through the crowd of girls, instead of around, but everyone on the little grassy hillside pressed nearer to watch, the boys at last mixing with the girls and shuffling this way or that for a better view. Hagrid calmed the unicorn as it snorted and tossed its head on its long white neck and stamped a plate-sized hoof in the dirt. Remus shed his robe onto an old stump nearby, and instructed Blaise to the same, rolling up their sleeves and dipping their hands into a bucket of water to wash. Then Remus led Blaise to the unicorn, talking quietly as he placed Blaise before it and instructed him in a little bow.

'Now, unicorns are less ceremonious creatures than, say, hippogriffs,' Remus told the class over his shoulder. 'Nonetheless, a display of respect goes a long way. We do not speak the same language as magical creatures, but the centuries of our co-existence have given us what we might call a common emotional language. We will return to this idea in every seminar this year. Respect for Wild magic is essential in any encounter with it. It's awfully helpful with your schoolmates and professors, too.'

A little titter released some of the tension. Blaise was gnawing his lower lip, looking to Remus for guidance.

'Now, come closer, a bit from the side, like this-- unicorns see better from the side, given the placement of their eyes-- and give him a little stroke at the base of the ears, here, watch the jaws, they do bite now and again. Now lean in, carefully, and blow a bit on his nose. This is how unicorns exchange scent and remember each other. Good, good, now he's got to know you a bit.'

The unicorn gave his head another toss, and tilted to give Blaise's scratching fingers better access to one ear. Blaise began to grin again, tentatively.

'Sir?' It was Seamus Finnegan, craning to see over Neville's head. 'It's not true then unicorns only let virgins touch 'em?'

This time the giggles were louder. Remus shook his head at Hagrid, who muffled a grin with a big hand. 'No, Mr Finnegan, it's not true. Nor is it true, obviously, that unicorns prefer females. It is true, however, that many magical creatures can get a sense of the person who approaches them, and unicorns are creatures generally associated with the Light. They will be far more responsive to someone gentle, good-natured, and kind. Qualities I am sure all of you have in abundance. Well done, Mr Zabini. Give a little bow backing off for good measure, and let's have one of your classmates give it a try.'

A spontaneous row broke out between self-selected candidates, which Lavender Brown won by dint of sharpest elbows and a willingness to stamp on feet. 'Gentleness itself,' Draco cracked in an undertone, as she presented herself, breathing a bit hard, to Remus, who led her to the unicorn. Like Blaise, she washed her hands and dipped low in a courtsey, wobbling only a little, and eagerly approached to pet the unicorn's lovely mane. 'Very well done,' Remus encouraged her, and cleared his throat to move her along when she wouldn't immediately be budged off. 'Thank you, Ms Brown. Let's pause here, shall we, for your assignment today.

'There are three stations for you to complete before we break for the afternoon. Everyone must complete all three, with the option of a fourth. Our Gamekeeper, Mr Hagrid, will be manning Station One, where you will learn about the feeding of unicorns, in both natural habitats and in preserves where injured unicorns are sent for healing and recovery. Stations Two and Three will be self-guided; at Station Two you'll learn about the methods of harvesting elements such as unicorn tail hairs, shavings of their hooves, horns discarded during mating season, and some of the rarer ingredients used in advanced magic and potions brewing such as placenta after live births, and so on. Station Three will be a hands-on examination of some of those ingredients, generously donated by Professor Snape, who has asked that I inform all of you that should any ingredients go missing he will remit Argus Filch with a thorough search of the dormitories and, er, any bodily cavities which might be used as hiding places. Station Four, of course, is here with me, to meet the unicorn, if you should like. This is not required, though it will be required that you meet at least two of the creatures to whom I will introduce you this terms, and two next term, but I will leave that choice to you.'

Very few of the girls budged from their place, though a few of the wiser ones judged their odds against the time allotted and headed for the other stations first. Hermione, no surprise, was one such, and was soon happily at work examining the rare ingredients, whipping out a notebook to take what looked to be the start of copious notes. Harry scratched idly at the back of his neck, watching where the crowd dispersed, and where his friends were inclined to go. Ron had gone off with Dean and Seamus to Hagrid's station, and the Ravenclaws were clustered at Station Two, busily debating the use of various implements like shears and wicked-looking pliers.

Harry shrugged at Draco. 'I say follow the Ravenclaws. We'll be done faster.'

Draco's mouth was screwed to the side as if he were chewing his cheek. 'I want to meet the unicorn.'

'Oh, I thought I'd, em, thought I'd pass.'

'Why?'

'I don't know, why do you want to meet it?'

'You heard what Professor Lupin said.'

'He said a lot.'

'He said... only people who are...'

'Draco.' Harry touched his arm carefully. 'You won an award last year for True Friendship, and you're worried you're not a good person?'

Draco rounded on him suddenly. 'I didn't ask your opinion, Potter, but you're not one to talk. Why don't you want to meet the stupid unicorn? You're afraid.'

Heat flashed up his neck. 'I'm not!'

'No? You're afraid of what happened with the unicorns last year in the Forest, you're afraid it made you Dark, aren't you?' Draco seized him by the hand that had been slicked with unicorn blood, blood from the murdered unicorn Voldemort had killed to keep his decaying host body alive a little while longer. Harry hadn't killed that unicorn, nor the many that Voldemort had murdered trying to break into Hogwarts to steal the Philosopher's Stone, but some small part of Harry had blamed himself for those awful deaths. Then, too, Harry hadn't cast a spell the same way with that hand since he'd touched the unicorn blood. Draco had seen it for himself, when Harry had felled a she-troll with nothing but a Stupefy-- when Harry had killed Quirrell without even a real spell, only a single word. 'It's just a damn hand,' Draco said coldly, and dragged him by it across the grass. He thrust right through the crowd of girls to the front, and gave Harry a push. Harry tripped on a bit of stone and in the stagger to land came up against Remus.

'Hullo, Harry,' Remus said, steadying him. 'Good you're here, we haven't had a boy since Blaise. Draco, good to see you too. Would you like to go next?'

Draco could be brave when he had to be, but given time to think about it he was quailing. 'Harry first,' he managed, stepping back to hide a bit behind Eloise Midgen.

'Harry, then.' Remus gently manoeuvred Aurelia Maddox away from the unicorn, which was starting to shift around and nose at the ground looking for something more appetising than its golden straw. It whinnied, and the girls gave off a fresh coo. Harry found himself covered with a fine sweat, and yet his throat was dry. Remus helped him off with his robe, and dunked his hands for him, gently washing them with the cool water-- it was scented, Harry noted disjointedly, it smelled like juniper-- and then led Harry by the shoulder to the unicorn. 'Bow,' Remus said, and Harry bent jerkily. 'Now just go gently, and blow into his nostrils, just lightly, and he'll do the same.'

'Remus,' he said, strangling, but Remus gave him a little nudge, and he stumbled forward. Up close the unicorn was huge, much bigger than the horses they'd seen in London pulling those carriages. It was a huge white blur, white and diamond when its long wickedly pointed horn sliced the air, and he jumped back, sure the unicorn was trying to kill him, but it came a step after him, instead, sniffing broadly at the air. It swung its big head ponderously side to side, to look at him once with each big blue eye and back again.

'Blow a bit,' Remus reminded him.

Harry leant in, cringeing. He sort of coughed at the unicorn, which gave itself a big shake all over and snorted hard.

'Give him a little pet, then. Try the eyeridge, that's a sensitive spot.'

Harry obeyed because he generally did when Remus told him to do something. He stuck his hand out without quite thinking about it. The unicorn didn't wait on him. It butted Harry full in the chest with its big head, nuzzling. Harry staggered from the solid weight of it, and the unicorn trotted along with him, mouthing at his sleeve. Finally it got to bare skin and licked Harry's hand with a rough hot tongue. That hand. The hand that had been covered with unicorn blood.

Remus rescued him. 'Uh-- well done. Nicely done. As you see, class, unicorns can be quite enthusiastic, even if we don't, uh, know why entirely. Thank you, Mr Potter. Mr Malfoy?'

But Draco had come over shy during the unicorn's odd performance with Harry. By the time Remus turned around for him, Draco had vanished.

Draco managed a very thorough vanish, in fact. Harry was turning in his notes at the end of the workshop when he heard Remus pull Crabbe aside, and asked if he'd seen Draco do any of the stations. Crabbe gave a dumb shrug and Remus let him off with a sigh.

'Draco's not the only one who didn't do all the stations,' Millicent defended her Housemate when Harry mentioned it. 'Crabbe only got two and Goyle copied off him for both. And I heard there was a Ravenclaw who spent all his time at the third station and never got to any of the others and the professor had to talk to him about time management.'

'Granger did all the stations twice,' said Blaise. He signed his notes and turned them in. 'She's a bit of competition, isn't she.'

'Competition?'

'Sorry, forgot I was talking to Harry Potter,' Blaise rolled his eyes. 'You do know Quidditch is for points, not fun?'

'I like to win as much as anyone, Zabini. And you don't play Quidditch.'

'Maybe I'll try out this year.'

'All right,' Harry said, mystified.

'S'Granger like Quidditch?'

'Not especially, I think, but she cheers for Gryffindor of course.'

'Of course.' Blaise shouldered his rucksack. 'See ya later, Potter.'

'Did you understand any of that?' Harry asked Millie.

Millie rolled her eyes, too, and followed Blaise back to the knot of Slytherins headed for the castle.

The unicorn was clearly the highlight of first week back for many students, but it had a galvanising effect on certain of their professors as well. Gilderoy Lockhart was keen to get back the spotlight, and whilst his early classes had the usual quiz about his newly published book and a lecture consisting mostly of Lockhart reading out passages to them as he'd done at Flourish and Blott's, he upped his game for the late-week practicals that combined all four Houses for each year. Fred and George's year were treated to a demonstration of violent jinxing spells which nearly caused a riot between their Gryffindor classmates and the Slytherins who, depending on who you heard the story from, either seized the opportunity to get in a nasty strike or were merely defending themselves when the twins did. Harry heard from Cedric Diggory that the fifth years were forced to re-enact Lockhart's classic (so he called them) battles against various magical monsters, resulting in seven students being sent to the Hospital Wing for burn treatments and one horrible case of erupting pustules. Harry rightly dreaded the second years' introduction to Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Cornish Pixies. Seamus said they were harmless. Seamus had never encountered a dozen of them in a confined space. Seamus ducked under his desk when Lockhart released the little blighters and was found there moaning and rocking himself when the other professors arrived to help clear the room. It was, Dumbledore said, one of the more astonishing twenty minute escapades he had ever witnessed in his long tenure at Hogwarts.

Don't get any ideas, Professor McGonagall warned Fred and George, with a thunderously prohibitive scowl.

All in all Harry was rather exhausted by Friday, when the prospect of a quiet afternoon of doubles Potions with Slytherin sounded positively restful. Snape, too, had been affected by the one-upmanship between professors, and began class with an unusually emphatic dictatorial crackdown that would, he promised in dire tones, prevent pranks, ensure equality or at least assure mutual destruction, and leave everyone alive at close of lessons. He made everyone get up from their seats and read off a new assignment of laboratory partners for the year which mixed Slytherins and Gryffindors and placed the most problematic pairings at strategic points where Snape could better monitor them. Neville Longbottom, singled out by a glare that left no doubts Snape considered him extremely problematic, was partnered with Blaise Zabini and Teddy Nott, who were nearly as put out as Hermione was to be partnered with Crabbe and Goyle. Harry was partnered with Draco and Pansy Parkinson, which was fine by him, but Ron looked miserable seated in back with Tracey Davis and Lavender Brown, who immediately struck up a fast friendship based on a shared love of Lockhart's line of girls' cosmetics.

'That'll backfire,' Draco said.

'What'll backfire?' Harry wondered, setting up his cauldron as Snape paced the room, cracking his wand like a whip against the lab table of anyone caught misbehaving during the clatter of re-arranging themselves. He lit a small flame beneath his tripod with the ease of having practised it all summer and set a swirl of distilled water to evaporate cleanly, ensuring the cauldron would heat faster and evenly, or so Snape had informed him. Pansy watched him do it, and, after a moment's indecision, imitated him. Harry smiled at her, and she ducked her head away.

'He's put the best with the worst and the mediocre with the unexceptional,' Draco observed quietly.

Harry looked over his shoulder. It was true that Blaise and Teddy generally got high marks, so far as he'd noticed, and Hermione of course was best at anything she tried and Crabbe and Goyle were... not. Harry looked between Draco on his left and Pansy on his right, and said uncertainly, 'Am I the worst at this table?'

Draco just looked at him.

'Oh.' Harry laid out his stirring rods, polishing them of dust with a bit of blotty rag. 'So how will that backfire?'

'The idiots will drag down the genuises, and the rest won't learn anything new. It's only going to frustrate everyone.'

'On the contrary, Mr Malfoy,' Snape snapped out, having picked up that resentful mutter the way he always seemed to do when you were convinced he couldn't hear you from across the room. But Snape came swooping up the aisle with his robes billowing impressively behind him, and whirled about to face them all from the front. 'You will be partnered not only in this classroom but in your essays and assigned readings as well. Few Potions Masters perform solo brewing, and commercial enterprises as well as Ministry labs rely on teams of brewers to maximise efficiency. In order to become comfortable with working on concert, you must experience a shared working environment and a commitment to the final product, not your own ego. This year I will be testing you by table for consistency across your potions, which can only be achieved by learning to work with those who may have different backgrounds, varying levels of expertise, and the appearance of a death wish, Longbottom, if you're really about to catch your sleeve on fire, what have I told you all about properly securing your robes? A point from each of you at Longbottom's table.'

'Sir!' Blaise protested. 'That's not fair!'

'Nor was it fair for you to snigger at the possibility of an accident and fail to prevent it. Longbottom is your headache now, Zabini.'

At that news, Hermione evidently arrived at the wisest possible decision and made Goyle switch seats with her so she could watch them both at once.

'Bearing in mind that your success this year depends upon the least of you,' Snape added, flicking his wand at a piece of chalk which obediently rose and began to scratch out a message on the blackboard, 'there is a reward for the team which accrues the highest marks for the year. Ordinarily I limit my Potions Symposium to promising students of the upper years, but the Ministry feels that the institution of actual supervision of this course has resulted in fewer graduates with full Potions qualifications, as if a reduction in the number of middling talented apothecary cast-offs is somehow problematic. Thus I am reserving three spots in my Symposium for whichever lacklustre effort rises above the chaff in your year. Bear in mind you are competing against Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw for the honour, two Houses which generally distinguish themselves for cooperation and discipline, so your task is by no means a simple one. Lest you determine it is not worth the effort, also bear this in mind: a recommendation from me will all but guarantee you placement in an apprenticeship of your choice.'

A few looked quite eager at this information, which rather surprised Harry. He hadn't even begun to think about apprenticeships. At Crowhill you'd been guaranteed a vocational apprenticeship at sixteen with the nearest open placement, relieving students of the burden of selecting a career for themselves. Since his introduction to the Wizarding World, Harry had developed some vague fantasies of becoming an Auror like his parents, but in truth he had no real idea what that entailed. Remus had said something once about there being far fewer Ministry careers than there were wizards who wanted them. Harry supposed a recommendation from Snape would be a real leg up.

But there was no way he could get one. He simply wasn't good enough at Potions, even after months of private tutoring, a fact Snape had despaired of all summer. And, judging by the sour looks Harry was receiving from his tablemates, Draco and Pansy would have cause to resent it.

'We will begin,' Snape said then, 'with a potion you should all be familiar with: the vaccine for dragon pox.'

'What's dragon pox?' Harry whispered as he laid out his notebook and readied his mechanical pencil for note-taking.

'What d'you mean, what's dragon pox?' Pansy scoffed.

'It means I don't know what dragon pox is. Is it like chicken pox?'

'How could you possibly get pox from a _chicken_?'

'How could you possibly get pox from a _dragon_?'

'Dragon pox,' Snape said loudly, quietening their bickering, 'has plagued the Wizarding communities of Europe for centuries. It is a magical illness, and, as such, only affects those with a magical core, which means wizardkind, half-bloods, Muggleborn witches and wizards, and Squibs, exempting only Muggles, who have their own diseases not communicable to our population. The Ministry take a dim view of science, believing it to be a Muggle disease of sorts, and as such pay no attention to what science tells us of disease. Disease can be prevented as well as treated. There is a cure now for dragon pox, yes, and that cure will heal you when you are ailing, but there is also a vaccine which ensures that even if you are exposed to the pox you cannot contract it.

'I have implored,' Snape said, drawing out the word in a lengthy elipsis of contempt, 'the Ministry to distribute this vaccine and make it mandatory that every infant be inoculated-- a whole generation could be--' Snape controlled himself with an indrawn breath, flatting his hands along his forearms. 'In their wisdom, however, the Ministry prefer to rely on the judgment of individuals who may choose or not choose to provide their families with this vaccine. You, however, dear students, are subject to the requirements laid out by this school so long as you attend here, and our governors are more readily persuadable than the Wizengamot. Beginning this year, all students attending Hogwarts will be required to be vaccinated. The greater the number of you immune to this pernicious disease, the greater number we will save when this disease strikes again. And it will, no matter what you have heard. No disease is ever truly eradicated.

'The receipt is on the board,' Snape told them. 'Begin, and do your best. It is no exaggeration to say your life depends on it.'

If Snape wanted them too intimidated to brew, that was a good means of accomplishing it. Harry checked on Neville, who looked fit to faint from the pressure. Blaise and Teddy would have a job of keeping him on target.

'Can you see the board all right, Harry?'

He faced forward. 'I think so, yes.'

Draco did not look reassured. 'Pansy, write it out for him to copy. You have the best penmanship. Potter, you collect the ingredients, and I'll prepare the base. That way we're all working from the same beginning.'

'You're so bossy,' Pansy sighed, but did as she was told. She did have nice handwriting, Harry saw, an elegant but very legible calligraphy marked cleanly with her quill. Harry departed to queue at the ingredients cupboard at the back of the class, holding the list she'd written him of what he'd need to collect. He followed Dean along the line of little jars, filling small paper envelopes with powdered dittany, mistletoe berries, dried fluxweed, one whole poppy head for each of them, and filling three pipettes with salamander blood. He made a make-shift basket of his robe by gathering the skirt in one fist and carried his load of ingredients back to their table in the front.

'Honestly, Potter,' Snape complained, on seeing him distribute to his partners from his temporary pocket. But he only flapped a hand at him and moved on.

'You do have the most appalling lack of sensibility,' Draco muttered. He had measured and heated a litre each of sheep's milk and elderflower honey. It smelled rather pleasant. 'You might care a _little_ how you look in public.'

'It's not public, it's Potion's class,' Harry pointed out. He brushed a bit of spilled powder off his robe and climbed up his stool, hooking his ankles through the legs. 'I'll try not to embarrass you.'

'It is literally the least you could do,' Draco said severely. 'No, don't you chop anything, Pansy and I are better at that. You look through the book and figure out those things you dream up about when and how to stir and all that.'

'Snape wrote it on the board.'

'Not all those little adjustments you always argue about,' Pansy corrected him. 'Now stop arguing with us and work, Potter.'

Outflanked as he was by such Slytherin unity, Harry flipped open his book with a grumble and began searching the appendices.

Their team fared better than some of the others across the classroom. Hermione turned in a flawless potion, per her usual, but was sweaty and unhappy by the end, and even more distressed to lose points off their final mark for doing all the work instead of delegating more tasks to Crabbe and Goyle, who had spent most of the afternoon playing gobstones instead of paying attention to her attempts to lecture them into cooperation. Surprisingly, Ron, Lavender, and Tracey got an Exceeds Expectation, and exchanged a round of high fives. Blaise, Teddy, and Neville got only an Acceptable, which left two of them wincing and one of them rather chuffed. Snape wound his way around the class, testing each of the three potions at every table, and came last to Harry, Draco, and Pansy. Their potions were all exactly the same shade of mint green, syrupy in consistency, and cooling to a tolerable tempature when tested. Snape nodded in slow satisfaction.

'Exceeds Expectation,' he marked them.

'What?' Draco squeaked indignantly. 'Sir, I mean. It's precisely as described! It's better than any other in the whole class!'

'I wonder why it is, Mr Malfoy, you persist in the belief that you can whinge your way into my good graces despite all previous experience? You exceeded my expectations for this particular team. Continue to do as well as you did today and you may yet achieve an Outstanding, but recall what I told you at the beginning of class: the way in which you brew is as important as your product. Ponder your technique before your next class.'

'Why's everyone trying to force us to work together this year?' Hermione was still stridently venting at dinner that evening. She savagely sawed at her gammon steak, stabbed her boiled potatoes, and bit her haricots verts in half as if she were imagining biting her lab partners. Or Snape. 'Why have Houses at all if they're going to tell us to ignore them?'

'I dunno, I like it,' Harry said.

'Easy for you to say! You're not stuck all year with two lumps as dull as mud! If that's Pureblood, no thanks!'

'Hey,' Ron protested. 'I'm Pureblood.'

'Obviously there's Pureblood and then there's Pureblood,' Hermione conceded grudgingly. 'How was it with your two, Harry?'

'I thought it went well, I'm not sure really why Snape marked us down. He told us to "ponder our technique". I think Draco's going to spring a blood vessel figuring it out.' Harry served himself another yorkshire pudding. 'How about you, Ron?'

'Great,' Ron said happily. 'Cept for those two wouldn't shup up the whole time. Look, they're even sitting together now.'

Harry craned his neck to see. It was true. Lavender had braved the Slytherin table. They'd gained a few more girls to their clique. They were all heads bent over someting-- Harry stopped straining to see when he realised it was Lockhart's new book, and that they were all sneaking glances back at him and whispering intently amongst themselves.

'Remus said we could meet him tomorrow?' Hermione asked quietly.

After such a long week, Harry wasn't entirely sure he wanted to wake early on a Saturday for more work. Remus had promised them breakfast, at least, which had won over Ron, who had often missed Saturday breakfasts for sleeping in. They had got word to Cedric and Draco, who had agreed to sneak out with them. Harry wondered idly if Draco would do another runner, fearing a talking-to from Remus over leaving class on Tuesday. Harry decided it was another occasion to use his dad's invisibility cloak. If he showed up at the Slytherin dorm first thing in the morning, Draco wouldn't be able to get out of going. He was pretty sure Millie at least would let him in even if Draco wouldn't.

True to his plan, Harry set his alarm clock for half six, and stumbled through his morning routine yawning. Ron was snoring and Neville just beginning to wake when Harry returned from the showers and dressed in denims and a red plaid shirt and pulled on his battered trainers-- Sirius had tried many times to replace them, but they were fit to his feet, and Harry refused to let them go. The cloak went on last, and he tugged up the hood even inside Gryffindor Tower, slipping out of his dorm and down the stairs to the common room. The Fat Lady in the portrait that covered the portal to Gryffindor stirred when he sneaked out, but after a grumpy call to an apparently empty corridor she shrugged and covered her face with a lace pillow again.

Harry had learnt where the Slytherin dorms were last year when Voldemort had attacked the school trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone. Though it had been a few months, Harry had asked the twins for confirmation of its location, sure they would know, and had given the impression he meant to leave a prank or two in his wake, winning their enthusiastic support. He'd even paid a few sickles for dung bombs he didn't mean to use, but it had aided his ruse, and he was sure they'd come in handy someday. Sirius always said so at least-- never leave home without a pocketful of dung bombs. It was lucky the twins were not early risers, though, or Harry feared they might have tried to come with him, always game for a trick. He'd have to be careful not to tempt them into looking closer at his activities. It wasn't that Harry thought they'd betray the Knights of Jupiter if they knew about it-- just that he liked it being something of a secret, still. If it felt small and a little silly and not very important, he wouldn't have to think too much on the reasons for keeping it going.

One thing the twins hadn't known was the password to the Slytherin common room. In the early weeks of school the prefects were on everyone to maintain strict silence, and wouldn't get careless til later in term. Neville had already forgot the Gryffindor password once, and Percy had refused to tell him til Neville found someone who would let him in, and had taken to writing it on his hand. The Slytherins didn't have a portrait guardian, however, they had a big blank wall, and Harry lost his confidence when he realised that one blank stone wall looked very much like another. Maybe there was a little carving or something that would help them recognise theirs? A sconce you could pull on to open the door, or a particular brick you pressed like in mysteries set in old Egyptian pyramids? Harry pushed on a lot of bricks, but none of them seemed to be in working order.

'What in Morgana's name are you doing?'

Harry straightened. 'Er... how can you see me?' he asked Draco, who had come upon him unawares and now stood with his hands on his hips, head cocked at a boy who ought to be invisible.

'I can see your shoes,' Draco said, 'and no-one in Slytherin would wear shoes that hideous.'

'Oh.' Harry shrugged back his cloak. 'I was looking for you.'

'Then it's a good thing I was here to find me, or you'd have been at it all day.' Draco narrowed his eyes. 'You thought I'd back out?'

Harry shrugged. 'Yes,' he settled for saying. It was shorter.

Draco scowled. 'Let's go, Potter.'

By the time they had left through the Great Doors and circled the castle to the stable, breakfast was beginning in the Hall, and students were out and about, so they drew no notice during their walk. The stables were a shelter from the bright summer sun, and Harry showed Draco how to climb up into Remus's loft, where he could hear voices. Hermione had beat them there, that was no surprise, but so had Ron, though he was yawning and sagging half-asleep on Remus's bed. Cedric and Neville were already there, too, poring over one of Remus's big leather-bound books at the small table.

'Good morning,' Remus greeted them, using the edge of his leather apron to swing the kettle out of the hearth. 'Jiffy just took a breakfast order for us, ought to be in--ah.' Jiffy, a house elf they had befriended last year, popped into Remus's loft with a house elf's air-puff version of Apparation. He was staggering under the weight of a hugely overloaded tray, which the children hurried to unburden. Jiffy had brought them just as much as they could have eaten in the Great Hall and more besides, though it rapidly became more a question of where to eat it than what they ate. The presence of this many bodies in Remus's loft stuffed it to capacity, especially after Jiffy returned a moment later with cushions for them to sit on.

It gave everything the air of a picnic, though, so they spent the time comparing their impressions of second year and asking Cedric what to expect, and Remus asked Cedric about fifth year and told them all a little about what the older students were up to-- Hermione in particular looked to be deeply worried and already planning her calendar for the next five years.

When even Ron had eaten to his entire satisfaction, though, Remus brought out his wand and laid it across his lap. The others mimicked him, drawing their wands too and sitting upright in anticipation.

Remus looked at them each very seriously. 'I'm going to start by saying something I wish you all to listen to very closely,' he said. 'Anything I teach you here will be for your protection only. There are other places to learn offencive magic; you'll all have a chance to participate in Duelling Club when that starts up, if you're looking for jinxes and hexes and the like. You may think I'm treating you like children, and my answer to that is that I am treating you exactly like children. You are not Aurors or warlocks, and if anything dangerous should happen this year the very first thing I want you to do is _run,_ not stand and fight. But.' He rolled his wand slowly between his palms. 'But, sometimes dangerous things do happen even at Hogwarts. So what we'll practise is how to defend yourself, how to buy yourself time, how to hide from an aggressor with magic on his side, how to get help. If you object to that, I won't stop you leaving for something more fun. But I will tell you for Harry's sake, if not your own, I think this is the most important thing you can learn this year.'

Harry blushed to find them all looking at him. 'Remus,' he said, squirming in his seat.

'And each of you did make a promise,' Remus went on soberly. 'I made a promise like that to Harry's parents, once. I wasn't able to keep it. I will keep it, for Harry.'

Cedric reached out and touched the tip of his wand to Remus's. 'For Harry,' he said simply.

Hermione put up her wand, too, extending it across the rough boards. 'For Harry Potter.'

'For Harry,' Ron said, kneeling up to reach over her shoulder, and Neville was nearly as fast as him, adding a staunch 'For Harry!'.

'You look absurd,' Draco told them, but scrunched his nose and stretched out his arm to add his wand to the many crossed like swords. 'For Harry. For all of us.'

That, Harry could swear to. He added his wand last, looking at each of them, his friends, his companions, swearing their lives to him. 'To all of us,' he said.

'So mote it be,' Remus finished, and then they all grinned stupidly at each other, but there was something euphoric about it all the same, their oath to each other. Something wonderful.

'All right,' Remus said, pushing to his feet. 'Let's limber up, lady and gentlemen.'


	6. Rogue One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which It's All Fun And Games Til Someone Loses A Limb._

'Acceptable,' Snape decreed.

Draco managed an entirely silent explosion solely with the power of his clenched jaws and blazing eyes. Harry carefully shifted away on his stool, edging toward safety nearer Pansy Parkinson.

'Mind your technique,' Snape said, the same advice he'd given last week, and no more helpful in its delivery than the first time. Snape did not stay to debate its usefulness. He swept off for the blackboard, taking up a piece of chalk with which to write their weekend homework assignment, a lengthy reading and their first essay-- two feet on the potion they'd just brewed, a draught used in the infirmary for soothing headaches. Harry had consumed considerable supply of it last year, carrying Voldemort about in his head. Harry knew it was meant to be a gungy orange with a milky tea consistency that clung to your throat no matter how you tried to swallow it down. He'd argued for diluting their group brew, but Parkinson had maintained that there was no mention of dilution in the receipt and Draco had sided with her, so there it sat, three cauldrons full of brick red liquid about as thick as Hagrid's tar-like Turkish coffee. Harry was quite relieved by the Acceptable, really; over summer Snape had hardly been that generous. Harry would have been made to dump it out and start again. But Harry decided now was not the correct moment to raise that point with Draco.

'Everyone's against me,' Draco declared dramatically, once they were safely dismissed and walking the corridor in a crowd of students happy to be released for the weekend.

'I'm sure not everyone,' Harry said practically. 'Parkinson and I aren't.'

'Oh, aren't you?' Pansy had made good her exit and was now walking ahead of the boys with Millicent Bulstrode and Tracey Davis. Draco scowled menacingly at her back. 'You knew we were going to fail and you didn't do anything!'

'We didn't fail, and you're the one who didn't do anything, I told you it wasn't right.'

'A Slytherin would've stepped up and done it right no matter the criticism.'

Harry had been doing, as he thought, an admirable job holding in his temper, but that was really too much. 'You'd have yelled at me for that, too. Acceptable is a perfectly fine mark and it's only the second potion in class, we've got all year to improve.' Draco looked set to riposte, but Harry cut him off. 'I have a pick-up game with the Gryffindor team. Why don't you come? We can try out our brooms against each other.'

'Did Oliver Wood set you up to ask me? He just wants to entice me onto the field early so he can plot attacks on my Nimbus 2001!'

'Fine, go sulk inside,' Harry snapped, giving up. 'I'll be outside-- there's a little too much hot air in here for my taste.' He left Draco spluttering behind him, and jogged ahead to catch up Neville, Ron, and Hermione. 'Anyone coming to the game?' he asked his friends. 'It's really nice out.'

'I'll come,' Ron agreed immediately. Ron had brought a broom to school this year, though it was a hand-me-down Cleansweep from his brother Charlie, and he was keen to try out for the team when Oliver called for new players. Every Weasley ever had been on the Gryffindor team. Bill had been a Chaser, like Harry, Charlie had been a Beater, as were Fred and George now. Percy wasn't on the team, but the other Weasleys tended not to count Percy. 'Can I bring Ginny to watch?' Ron asked. 'I think she's homesick. She's been hiding in the girls' loo to cry.'

'Since when do you know the goings-on in girls' loos?' Hermione wondered.

Ron shrugged. 'Lavender talks the whole class away, tole ya that last week. I can't not listen.' He gave a full-body shudder. 'She talks about Lockhart a  _lot_.'

'Neville, you want to come?' Harry asked, though he fully anticipated Neville to turn him down. Neville did not like flying much.

To Harry's surprise, though, Neville greeted that idea with some enthusiasm. 'Well, Cedric likes Quidditch, you know,' Neville explained. 'He taught me a few plays this summer.'

Hermione made a little face at this news. 'I suppose I'll have to learn, if even Neville is going to go mad for Quidditch.'

'You're good at strategy, you should write plays for us.' Harry raised his voice slightly, projecting at Draco, who was trudging along unhappily behind them still. 'After all, this year we're up against Slytherin's best broom. And whichever ponce is on it.'

'Very ha ha, Potter,' Draco complained, but grudgingly gave up his dark mood and joined them. 'Having Granger write plays is cheating.'

'You just wish you'd thought of it.'

Though it was just a game for fun, not a proper match, a number of students had heard it was in the offing and showed up to take advantage of a good sunny afternoon. Professor Burbage sat relaxing in a pinafore frock with her knitting out on her lap, chatting with Professors Sprout and Vector. Remus had come, Harry waved happily on seeing him standing in the sands below the tiered seats talking to Madam Hooch. They stood sheltered in a bit of shadow, til Remus shifted to wave a reply at him, and their eyes gleamed cat-like gold.

Their audience in the stands inspired a bit of showing-off from the players who'd come. The whole of the current roster of Gryffindor's team were there, Fred and George as Beaters, Harry, Katie Bell, and Alicia Spinnet as Chasers, Oliver Wood their Captain also serving as their Keeper. They were short Mo Milai, who had been their Seeker last year-- Fred-or-George told Harry he'd transferred to a magic school in Mumbai for an exchange year-- and two of their second-string backups. Tryouts wouldn't be for another week, but Oliver had a keen eye for available talent and was scouting not so subtly as he recruited volunteers for the game. There weren't enough Gryffindors for two whole teams, however, so Draco got a chance to fly after all subbing in as Seeker for the second team, and Ron as a Chaser, leaving Hermione to occupy his sister Ginny in the stands. Harry had yet to get a proper look at Ginny. She'd been standing there staring at his back when he'd turned to say something to Neville, but had squeaked instead of returning his 'hullo' and stood with her hands pressed to her flaming cheeks. Harry supposed that was progress.

'You're too little, mate,' Oliver had to tell Colin Creevey, who put in a passionate defence of his suitability to play, despite his size, lack of a broom, and total ignorance of the rules of Quidditch, which he'd only learnt about two minutes before volunteering. Oliver's apology, however, brought a scowl to Harry's face. 'Say,' Oliver went on, 'how'd you like being the team photographer, eh? Put that camera of yours to official use.'

Colin had got his hands on several kinds of Muggle cameras and was trying all of them out by photographing everything that moved. Harry was one of his favourite subjects. Harry did not much care for it.

'Wowzer!' Colin marvelled, his face lit with the wattage of a thousand bulbs. 'I'll get started straight away, sir!' He whipped his Polaroid up and blinded Oliver with a flash. Oliver stood blinking owlishly as Colin hurried off to get a shot of everyone else. Harry swung a leg over his Nimbus 2000 and kicked off into the air, fleeing as fast as he could.

Harry enjoyed the game immensely. It was good to play for real again, not just with Sirius or Remus when he could be persuaded to join them-- even with three players it was essentially an airborne game of catch. This was a proper game, though more relaxed than a real match, with everyone giggling and calling out names at each other and trying out silly moves that would have no place in a real match. Harry practised tumbling, a spiral manoeuvre he'd tried over the summer and thought he could get right with time, a move that allowed him to dive gracefully from a great height and come out of the upswing with greater leverage than if he just flew hard for the ground and lost all his forward momentum in reversing course. Katie and Alicia caught on and began accompanying him in a trial play, Katie tossing him the Quaffle at the head of his dive and Alicia meeting him below for a catch. It wasn't quite together yet but Harry thought it could be useful if they ever figured it out.

A sudden whoosh alerted Harry just a moment before the Bludger whistled past his ear. Harry ducked away, too startled by the near miss even to see who'd been aiming at him. He dropped a few feet and brought his broom about, scanning the air for the other players' positions, and realised the Bludger was still careening through the air. It came about in a wide turn-- no Bludger Harry had ever seen did that!-- and came screaming back toward Harry.

Back toward Harry. With a jump of his heart he reacted purely on instinct. He gripped his Nimbus and shot up out of the Bludger's path.

'Harry!' he heard someone scream, and checked the Bludger following in his wake. It had to be enchanted. Harry leant low over his broom and put on a burst of speed, circling the heights of the stands. No matter how fast he flew, however, the Bludger followed, and it was gaining on him. What was wrong with Quidditch balls at Hogwarts? At least last year's rogue Snitch hadn't been trying to hurt him. Harry swerved to plunge toward the sands, thinking it might be best to be lower in case he got knocked off his broom, but he hadn't quite made it when the Bludger at last caught him up. Harry dodged its oncoming with one eye over his shoulder, but he'd gone too close to the stands. The nose of his broom connected with a wooden strut, and Harry was flung pot over kettle. He braced himself for landing--

He hit the boards hard, tumbling in a clatter of limbs and falling over the edge of the seat. The Bludger was coming in after him, cracking a bench resoundingly and rebounding off an upper seat like one of the snooker balls at the Leaky Cauldron, sharp angles and the force of the hit sending it screeching after Harry as he went into free-fall in the dark beneath the stands. His flailing arms scrabbled to catch at crisscrossed support beams, but when he finally caught hold it nearly wrenched his arm out of the socket. He scrambled to secure himself, and flung up his free arm to defend his vulnerable head as the Bludger zoomed in, hooked an ankle tight in a X-shaped wedge. With barely enough time for a frantic breath, Harry let go, and the Bludger slammed into the beams where Harry had been a moment before, making the whole structure shudder. Harry swung by his trapped leg, and did a very stupid thing hanging there upside down because there was hardly a chance to think better of it. He grabbed the Bludger out of the air as it came for him again and hugged it tight to his chest.

It was like trying to wrestle with Padfoot. The Bludger hurled itself this way and that trying to get free. Harry felt his ankle wrench with a painful pop as the Bludger dragged him through the air like a rag doll. The blood rushing to his head was making him faint, his pulse thundering in his ear and black crowding in his vision til only a pinpoint of light remained. The Bludger battered his ribs, hammering for freedom. Just when Harry's increasingly disconnected-feeling limbs might have let it go, something worse happened. His foot slipped out of his old trainer. Harry had a glimpse of it, still wedged tight in the X-beams, as Harry fell again.

The Bludger must not have known enough to let him crash to his doom on the sand. It only knew it wanted to hit, and so it was the Bludger that inadvertently saved him. In trying to escape Harry's hold, it went zinging through the air with all the force of a Nimbus, and it took Harry with it. Harry clung dizzily as they sped through the stands, whipping around beams as if they flew through a forest of tall trees. Harry closed his eyes after the third near miss and just concentrated on spreading his sweating palms wide on the Bludger's bucking leather.

'Harry!'

They'd seen him go in, and his teammates had followed him into the stands. Some were ahead, some behind, all calling his name frantically as they gave him and the Bludger chase. Harry impacted someone in a red shirt-- he thought it was Ron but could hardly see, his glasses had slipped off somewhere in the mayhem-- but snatching hands missed him. Oliver's familiar commanding holler directed the team, and the next time Harry hit a body he was caught from both sides, folding in half over linked arms and embraced securely mid-flight. With a gasp, Harry let go the Bludger, which sprang away from him with eager relief.

'Watch out--' Harry cried, but too late. Draco Malfoy was right in the Bludger's path, and the Bludger arrowed straight for him with all the force of a charging bull. Everyone heard the crunch of bone as it took Draco clear off his broom. Harry flung out a hand, with no thought in his head but that Draco must not fall, and--

And Draco didn't. He jerked to a stop mid-air, splayed loose-limbed, his head hanging. Alicia Spinnet, who had been streaking down to catch him as fast as she could, looked rather stunned as she caught him by the shoulders and hauled him onto her broom.

'Get Madam Pomfrey,' Oliver told Ron, and Ron hurried to obey. 'Get the boys onto the sands.'

They were a sorry sight, picking their way through the hanging tapestries that disguised the stands and alighting at last in the sand. Fred and George, who had caught Harry, let him down gently, though his ankle folded under him and he fell to hands and knees immediately. It didn't stop him scrambling to get to Draco, who was unconscious, horribly pale, sweat gleaming on his white skin. The professors had all come running and Remus got to Draco first, Hooch at his side, and he hauled up Draco's shirt and felt about his chest. There was a great red mark on him where the Bludger had hit.

'Not so fast, young man,' a close-up blur of someone tall said, halting Harry's limping progress. Lockhart. Harry tried to duck around him, but Lockhart had more arms than Bludgers had, and easily manhandled him to a stop. He clucked over Harry's limp and before Harry quite knew how he'd done it, Lockhart had him sat on the sand and was rolling Harry's foot between two hands.

'Ow!' Harry cried, feeling something go crunch in there.

'Broken, I daresay,' Lockhart announced, pausing to pose on bended knee with a winning smile for Colin Creevey, who had made it to the sands as well and was capturing all the excitement on camera. 'Fortunate for you, Mr Potter, I'm a dab hand at field healing. Why, once I had to tend both myself and my two sherpas atop Mount Everest whilst in pursuit of two malign yetis terrorising the Muggle climbers--'

Harry could not have cared less about yetis in that moment. He couldn't see what was happening to Draco with Lockhart looming over him blocking his view. 'I can wait for Madam Pomfrey to finish with Draco,' he tried, futilely, for Lockhart was wrenching Harry's ankle out of alignment again, and Harry bit his lip against a flash of pain that flattened him instantly.

'Bear your agony with stoicism, son,' Lockhart advised him with a sympathetic wink. 'Keep up appearances, you know. Women love a brave face.'

Hermione fell into the sand beside Harry, spraying him, and clutching his hand. 'Oh, Harry! Oh no. You'll be all right, won't you?'

'Told you so,' Lockhart mouthed, lifting Harry's foot into his lap and aiming his wand. 'Won't be but a moment, Harry, I know just the spell.'

'I can really wait,' Harry tried again, but with Hermione all teary-eyed above him and Lockhart pushing him down he hadn't a chance at escape. Lockhart whacked Harry's ankle with the wand and grandly pronounced, ' _Ossio Dispersimus_ _!'_

Harry was cringeing, afraid to look. He was quite astonished when the pain abruptly vanished. Tentatively, he peeked. His foot was still attached, so far as he could tell, propped up in Lockhart's lap. All five toes present and accounted for, the big one poking out from the hole he'd been meaning to ask Remus to mend. 'Oh,' he said.

'All's well then!' Lockhart patted Harry's knee. 'Let's get you up and test it, then.'

The problem rapidly made itself clear. Harry dug his feet into the sand to rise up. One foot found purchase. The other bent horrifically, scrunching up and folding itself in a roll of flesh and sock. Hermione made a gagging noise.

'What'd you do to him?' George-or-Fred asked curiously, both of the twins leaning in to see. Probably-Fred poked Harry's foot, then went a step farther and picked it up, giving it a squish. 'Eww,' he said, utterly delighted to find it flopped about freely.

'Er... ah, I may have... that can happen sometimes,' Lockhart said, regaining his bluster and inching away simultaneously. 'Fascinating, isn't it? Magic. Don't know my own strength! Just like the time I set that sherpa on fire curing his frostbite!'

'How far up does it go?' The twins palpated his calf, eventually locating the remaining bone-- about halfway to his knee. George rolled up his limp leg like a toothpaste tube, with Colin standing over him taking frantic pictures, til Hermione swatted him to a stop and ordered him away.

Madam Pomfrey arrived with Ron behind her, and went immediately to Draco as Hooch flagged her in. McGonagall had come puffing and huffing behind them, the long skirts of her robe hiked up over her boots. McGonagall began ordering the crowd away, and Harry's teammates reluctantly dispersed, excepting Fred and George, who picked Harry up between them and got him standing on his remaining foot. 'Oh, Potter,' McGonagall said, going a little green at the sight of his foot and resolutely not looking at it again. 'What on earth happened?'

'It was the Bludger, Professor,' Hermione volunteered. 'We all saw it. It went after Harry as if it was hexed.'

'Possessed, more like,' said Fred, or George, or whichever one stood to his right. 'It almost killed him.'

'It did kill Malfoy,' said the other.

'What?' Harry threw himself forward without quite remembering he'd go tumbling without their support, but the twins caught him before he finished his pratfall.

'Joking,' George apologised sheepishly. 'Sorry, Harry.'

His gut relaxed a bit. 'He's all right? Professor?'

'We're taking him to Saint Mungo's,' said Remus, leaving the knot of concerned adults all hunched over Draco's prone form. 'Severus will fetch his parents. Broken ribs, bad bruising-- Harry?' Remus knelt to look at Harry's foot. 'Did you try to heal yourself? You've vanished all the bones.'

'Lockhart,' Fred corrected him with a snicker.

Remus stood with a face frozen and white lips pressed very tightly together. Lockhart gave him a queasy grin that faltered as Remus stared through him. With a hastily cleared throat, Lockhart made himself scarce, joining the crowd of students trooping back to the castle.

'Madam Pomfrey will have to accompany Draco to hospital,' Remus said at last. 'But she'll return once he's been transferred. Let's get you inside. No pain?'

'No pain,' Harry muttered. 'No anything. We can... we can, um, get my bones back, can't we? From wherever he sent them?'

'Not precisely, but we can regrow them,' Remus answered, as if that were at all a normal thing to say. Harry could at least be grateful that Remus wasn't more disturbed. 'You'll be all night in the infirmary, I'm sure, and Skelegrow isn't much pleasant, but it's never done me a harm. You'll be all right soon enough. Let's get him inside, please, boys.'

Harry was moved whether he wanted to be or not, so could only twist his head back to watch as Madam Pomfrey conjured a stretcher for Draco. They were lifting him onto it the last Harry could see. Then they were passing through the archway out of the stands, and Harry could see no more.

 

 

**

 

 

Harry had no shortage of visitors through dinner and the evening hours, which handily distracted him from worrying about Draco and from itching the mad crawl of invisible ants that was the Skelegrow potion at work. All his friends had speculations on the origins of the rogue Bludger, even those who hadn't been there to see it, everything from a prank gone dangerous-- although pranks were usually the Weasley twins' at work, and Harry was sure they'd have been more upset to see real harm come from something they'd done-- to Voldemort or his minions taking the opportunity to attack Harry. Harry thought that was unlikely, as someone would've had to get at the Bludger before it was released into play to hex it. Not necessarily, Cedric disagreed, hadn't it been some twenty minutes before it had gone after Harry? That was proof it hadn't been hexed til everyone was in the air and well engaged with the game. Whichever was the truth, it meant someone will ill intent had got onto Hogwarts' grounds. Again.

Remus was the last to see him, and he brought Sirius, who had to hear the whole story from Harry though Harry was sure Remus had already told him. Remus steered them away from talk of their suspicions, so instead Sirius had him describe his air-borne acrobatics. He seemed quite impressed with Harry's dexterity. When Madam Pomfrey began to linger pointedly nearby looking at her watch, Sirius sighed heavily and gave Harry a fierce hug.

'It's not the same without you two,' he confided gloomily. 'I've been all week in the attic going through Mum's mountain of ancestral junk. You wouldn't believe some of the vile things up there. And I no sooner put out a box of the stuff than Kreacher steals it back. I've had to ban him stowing anything away, but I think he's figured out the loophole and begun burying it in the courtyard garden.'

'Severus?'

Professor Snape stood in the doorway. He didn't look pleased, precisely, to see Remus and Sirius, though it was Sirius who earned his most sour look. He held a bit of metal in one hand. 'Potter's glasses,' he said. 'I retrieved them from the Quidditch field. I took the liberty of attaching a locate charm-- since this seems to be a recurring motif in Mr Potter's academic journey.'

'Thank you, sir.' Harry received them back from Snape's extended hand, jamming them onto his face. Everything resolved into clarity. Snape looked drawn and weary. 'Sir? Draco?'

'The Bludger caused internal injuries,' Snape said.

Sirius grimaced. 'Soft pedal, man.'

'I was,' Snape told him frostily. He returned his gaze to Harry. 'Fortunately for Draco, the healers at Saint Mungo's were able to repair the damage. He'll be away a few days in recovery. The Bludger, by the way, appears to have vanished as handily as your metatarsils. Perhaps we should point the Aurors toward Gilderoy Lockhart.'

Remus gave a little snort at this. 'I believe Albus had a long conversation with Gilderoy this evening about stepping on toes. Or removing them. If that's the worst he manages this year, we should count ourselves lucky.'

'Tempting fate,' Snape said, arching a dark brow. 'You know the curse on the position. He won't last the year, mark my words.'

'Curse?'

'It's an urban legend,' Remus said, smiling down at Harry. 'It is true that it's been a long time since anyone held the Defence Against the Dark Arts position more than a year. Maybe Lockhart will break the run, though. He finished out Quirrell's term, after all.'

'If he manages not to finish off the rest of us, I'll consider you validated in your puerile optimism, Lupin.'

'Are you two actually smiling at each other?' Sirius looked profoundly disturbed by this. 'It's only two weeks into the year. You can't be friends already. You can't be friends, like, ever.'

'Not all of us are arrested in our teenage misperceptions, Black,' Snape said loftily.

'Potter.'

'Even worse,' Snape said, and left with a smart little flip of his robe.

Remus gave Harry's hair a stroke. 'I'll check on you in the morning,' he said quietly. 'Try to sleep. No midnight wanderings.'

'Okay.' Harry lay back, and Remus covered Harry's slowly re-boning foot with a quilt. Harry tucked his glasses safely under his pillow with his wand. 'Could you, er... could you leave the light?'

'Of course.' Remus moved the lamp with the blue magical flame closer to Harry's bedside. 'Good night, Harry.'

'Night, kiddo.' Sirius waited for Remus to turn away, then slipped a comic into the folds of Harry's quilt with a wink. 'Grow strong foot-bones so you can give Lockhart a real kick in the pants for me.'

 

 

**

 

 

Harry had fallen asleep with the _Adventures of Mad Merlin_ open to the part where Merlin and the Knights of Camelot enjoyed a rather risque evening with the nymphs of the Green Chapel. When a finger poked him in the ear, Harry jumped a guilty mile, stuffing the comic under his pillow. 'What?' he asked groggily, fending off the finger poking him again. He fumbled his glasses out and stuffed them on.

Dobby the house elf knelt on the edge of Harry's cot. When Harry focussed on him, Dobby sucked in a trembling breath and snuffled loudly. Two fat tears rolled down his greenish cheeks. Those tears were followed by several dozen more. And a few dozen more after that.

'Er, here,' Harry said, plucking a tissue from the table beside his bed and offering it. 'Why are you here, Dobby? Draco's in Saint Mungo's.'

This only exacerbated Dobby's weeping. He noisily blew his nose and wiped it on his arm when the tissue proved inadequate to its task, leaving a streak of gooey mucus behind. 'M-m-master Harry Potter is very k-kind,' Dobby managed, reminding Harry of Professor Quirrell's hang-dog stuttering. 'Sh-sh-surely Master H-h-hair-'

' _Please_ just Harry,' Harry interrupted, and Dobby brightened a bit, giving him a wobbly smile, before descending into sobs twice as bad as before.

'Sh-sh-surely Harry Potter knows it was Dobby who hexed the Bludger and b-b-broke--' Dobby let off a wail like a tea kettle reaching the boil. 'P-p-poor Harry Potter's ankle and M-m-Master Draco!'

'Wait, that was you?' The Bludger hadn't broken Harry's ankle, exactly, and Dobby couldn't have foreseen Lockhart bumbling in to 'save' Harry, but that was hardly the worst that had come of interfering. 'This is much worse than port-keying us to Cornwall!' Harry hissed, as Dobby sobbed piteously. 'Draco's really hurt!'

'Dobby didn't mean for that to happen!' the little elf cried. 'Only to knock Master Draco off his broom a little bit--'

'There's no "a little bit" for falling off a broom mid-air!' Remus had scolded him exactly that when he had caught Harry and Sirius rough-housing in Beddgelert. Harry could truly appreciate the wisdom of that objection now he'd seen it happen to someone else.

'Dobby stopped him!'

'No, I did, I willed it...' Harry trailed off, looking at his hand. He hadn't felt a surge of magic, that was true, the way he had the other times. And though he'd had his wand, it had been in a pocket, not held in his grip, and he'd always had his wand before when he'd done something like that. 'You did stop him falling, didn't you.'

'If he had fallen, Master Lucius would have taken Master Draco from the school,' Dobby whimpered, smearing his nose on the other arm and giving it matching run of bogeys. 'Dobby only wanted to save you both. Dobby didn't mean... didn't mean... Dobby ironed his ears and hammered his fingers in punishment, Dobby is a bad elf, such a b-bad elf!'

'Dobby is a bad elf if he thinks he can hurt people for no reason,' Harry told him coldly, but realising he could see burn marks on the elf's drooping ears and that the ragged bits of cotton wrapped around his knobby hands had been torn from the hem of his own mangy clothes sapped the last of his temper. With a sigh, Harry threw off his quilt and stood, testing his new ankle bones. They seemed to hold, if a little achy. 'Come on,' he said, and led Dobby by the shoulder to Madam Pomfrey's medicine cabinet. It was locked, but Harry reckoned an elf who could stop Draco falling to his death could probably manage an Alohomora. If anything, Dobby was thrilled to serve, snapping his fingers (clumsily, giving the hammering) and popping open the glass door. Harry reached in, squinting in the dark to make out the labels. He found bruise balm and burn ointment and a roll of proper gauze. 'Just be still a moment,' he told Dobby, lifting the little elf onto a stool and kneeling before him to unknot the ratty strips from his hands.

'Harry Potter is a marvellous wizard,' Dobby sniffed, goggly eyes wide and unblinking.

'Harry Potter is a marvellously tired wizard,' Harry corrected, inexpertly smearing Dobby's hands and re-wrapping them. 'One who doesn't much see how hurting yourself makes it up to Draco what you've done. What is it you think you're saving him from that's worse than what you did?'

Dobby gave a shuddering sigh. 'Dobby cannot tell,' he whispered in anguish.

Harry turned his attention to the ironed ears. They looked and smelled like sausages left too long on the griddle.

'Why not?' Harry asked eventually. 'Why can't you tell?'

'Master told Dobby not to, long ago.'

'Lucius Malfoy?'

'Master Abraxas Malfoy,' Dobby said, before his hands shot up to cover his mouth. He moaned. 'Oh, Dobby is such a bad elf!'

Harry wrestled his arms down when Dobby made to beat himself about the skull. He was surprisingly strong for a creature no bigger than a four or five year child. 'Master Abraxas didn't tell you not to tell Draco, did he? Well, if you could tell Draco, Draco would tell me, so telling me now is as good as telling Draco, don't you see? So you're being a good elf.'

That was what Remus would have called questionable logic, but Dobby seemed just stymied enough trying to follow it that it bought Harry enough time to finish his ears. 'Dobby is... Dobby is a good elf?' he asked hopefully.

'You are if you tell me what's so bad that you don't want us at Hogwarts.'

Dobby checked all about them for signs of anyone listening in, though it was silent as a grave inside the infirmary with even Madam Pomfrey gone to bed. In a shrill whisper, Dobby leant in and said, 'The black book.'

'Which black book?'

That was a step too far. Dobby shook his head frantically side to side, rocking himself right off the stool. He used his new position to fling himself at Harry, wrapping his skinny arms tight about Harry's leg. 'Ohhh, beware, Harry Potter! Promise Dobby Harry Potter will beware the evil black book!'

'Er, sounds do-able. If I ever figure out which book it is,' he added sourly. The library probably had hundreds of black books in it. Even Hermione would be at her wit's end with nothing more to go on than that description. 'Dobby, listen, though. If I promise to beware the black book, you've got to promise not to try and hurt me and Draco any more, do you understand? We're not going to leave Hogwarts. Both of us want to be here more than anything. Draco's so unhappy at home and all I want is to learn magic like my mum and dad, don't you see? Hogwarts is... Hogwarts is home for us, really. Don't take it away just because you're afraid of something here. Bad things happen here, it's true, but now we know and we'll be careful. Extra careful.'

Dobby dabbed his eyes on a bit of Harry's pyjama trousers. 'Dobby understands,' he agreed tearfully. 'But... maybe Dobby can still watch? In case Dobby's help is needed?'

If this is your idea of help, Harry almost said, but thought better of it. 'We'll be sure to call immediately,' he swore instead. 'I'll tell Draco so he knows.'

Dobby gave his leg such a squeeze Harry almost squawked at the force of it, sure he was going to need Skelegrow all over again if the elf hugged his leg into two halves. But then with a pop of elf Apparation, Dobby was gone, and Harry was kneeling all alone on the floor in front of an open medicine cabinet, which was surely going to be worth a detention in the morning, when Madam Pomfrey saw. Harry sighed. There was nothing for it. He cleaned up as best he could, replaced all the pots in the cabinet and closed it, and took himself back to bed.

If he dreamt of scary black books all night, it was entirely Dobby's fault.


	7. Mutability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which An Ancient Magic Stirs From Slumber._

'Er...' Harry worried his lower lip, biting til it hurt. 'Maybe you could just use, er, Skele-Shrink?'

Madam Pomfrey gave him a flat look. 'There's no such thing, child, more unfortunate for you.'

Snape made a queer noise. Harry stared questioningly before he realised what it was-- he'd just never heard it before. Snape was chuckling. Snickering, actually. And not troubling to hide it. 'Where's that little Creevey boy?' Snape wondered, a glint of crooked teeth showing as his pale lips folded into an unfamiliar grin. 'A photograph for posterity seems in order.'

'Severus, really.' Pomfrey holstered her wand with a sigh. 'Potter, I don't know how you do it, or what it is you've managed to do, but you certainly have done it.'

 _It_ was the large foot that lay propped up on a pillow on Harry's cot. His foot. The Skelegrow had worked, all right. His bones had re-grown during the night. It was just that after Dobby's visit, when Harry had gone back to sleep, the potion had kept on working. Harry's toes were the length of fingers, by now. His leg was a full handspan longer than the other, normal, one. His ankle wouldn't bend, couldn't bend-- it was solid bone, a big knob of bone covered by stretched skin.

'I'll firecall a colleague of mine at Saint Mungo's,' Pomfrey said at last. 'Stay still, Potter, just... stay still. You're not in any pain?'

'A little,' he admitted grudgingly. 'It's achy.'

'It's still growing.' Snape strode away to the medicine cabinet. 'A mild topical anaesthetic should ease you. Make your call, Poppy, I'll mind our young Frankenstein.'

Harry shifted about on his cot, trying to find a comfortable position, and settled on his side, his freaky leg extended at an angle. 'You will be able to fix it?' he asked tentatively, not sure he wanted to know if the answer were going to be 'no'.

'Worse come to worst, we can chop it off and begin you again with a new one.' Snape paused at the cabinet. 'Potter-- did you open this? It's unlocked.'

Harry had rather forgot about the night's misadventure in all the excitement of waking up to find he'd grown enough extra bone for a third limb. 'Er... sort of.'

'Whatever you've imbibed, boy, you had best confess it now so we can fix you.' Snape swooped back on him with a fearsome grimace. 'You little idiot, do you make a habit of sneaking potions? Plenty to choose from at Lupin's bedside, isn't there? Don't you have any notion it could maim you, burn your insides out, kill you even? After everything sacrificed for you, you'd throw it all away on a momentary adventure? How like your father--'

'I didn't drink anything!' Harry protested, jerking back as Snape came grabbing for him. Snape slapped his hands down and pulled off Harry's glasses, peeled back his eyelids and stared into Harry's eyes. 'I didn't,' Harry swore. 'Truly, it wasn't for me!'

'Then who? I want names, Potter. This is an expelling offence.'

'It's not a student. It was that house elf, the one who sent us to Cornwall.'

'The house elf?' Snape let him go and stood glowering down at him as Harry fumbled his glasses back on. 'The Malfoy elf?'

'He was upset what happened to Draco. It was him hexing the Bludger. He said he was still trying to get us out of Hogwarts, but I think Draco being really hurt surprised him.'

'Did he tell you any more about why he wants you out of the school so badly?'

'Something about a black book. He said someone named Abraham or Abacus or something--'

'Abraxas?' Snape said, blinking rapidly. 'Abraxas Malfoy?'

'I think so. That sounds right. He said the book was from Abr-- Abricksus.'

'And what about this book is so dangerous?'

'He wouldn't say. Couldn't say, he said.'

Snape rolled back the cuff of Harry's pyjama trouser and began to rub a smelly goop on Harry's monster foot. 'And this has what to do with a jimmied lock?'

'Dobby tortured himself for hurting Draco.' Harry hesitated. 'Hogwarts' elves don't... they don't do that, do they?'

'Elves do as their masters command. Both explicitly and implicitly.'

'What?'

'If this elf tortures himself, Potter, it is because the Malfoys have shown him how.' Snape wiped his hand meticulously on a kerchief and left it crumpled on Harry's bedside table. 'I suppose it's worthless to warn you against involving yourself with this elf now. Clearly it seeks you out.'

'Elves are always weird with me.'

'It is not only wizardkind who were spared when the Dark Lord was destroyed the night he attacked your family.' Snape gave a weary frown at this, transferring his dark eyes to the window and the sunlight beyond. 'If the elf returns,' he said slowly, 'if the elf returns, question it. Press it to tell you everything it can. You are Harry Potter. He will want to answer you. Promise him anything you have to, to make him talk.'

'Sir? What if Dobby's right? If there's danger here?'

Snape looked at him again, a piercing look that weighed Harry and found him wanting. 'There always was,' he said.

There was no opportunity to reply. Madam Pomfrey had returned, carrying a tray of several potions and creams. 'I consulted a Healer,' she announced, her heels clacking purposefully on the marble as she bore down on him. 'I explained your magical allergy, such as we know about it, and we're in agreement this seems to be yet another instance. Our first step is to negate the effect of the Skelegrow, and then I'll be performing some tests.'

'I hate the tests,' Harry whinged, dropping his head back to his pillow in defeat.

Pomfrey touched his cheek gently. 'I know,' she apologised, and sighed when he only turned his head away. 'If it weren't necessary, dear, I wouldn't put you through it.' She sat on the edge of his cot and poured him small cups of potions from each of the bottles. 'Severus, I'll need you to brew an antidote. I've written down the receipe.'

'I'll do what I can. I'm already brewing for the Headmaster-- you know it's a complex potion requiring most of my facilities.'

'It's not difficult, only rare. I've already firecalled Rosemerta to owl me a pouch of hen's teeth. My lab isn't as well stocked as yours, but you're welcome to it.'

'Then I'll begin at once.' Snape snorted softly. 'At least you have the decency to explode into a magical mystery at the weekend, Potter. With a bit of luck, we'll have you set to rights by Monday morning.'

 

 

**

 

 

'Did you see?' Oliver demanded all in a rush, coming in for landing on his usual seat beside Percy at the breakfast table at speed and hitting with a thump. 'Ya see, Perce? Duelling club starts this week!'

'I don't think I've ever seen him this excited about anything but Quidditch,' observed George, but Fred had gone bright-eyed and leant in to grab for the parchment notice Oliver had brought with him. Ron strained to see, standing up on his knees on the bench to peer over his brothers' shoulders. Even Percy looked intrigued as he sipped his tea.

'Duelling club?' Hermione said, head poking up from her Transfiguration text. 'I've read--'

'Read all about that,' chorused everyone along with her. Hermione stuck out her tongue at all of them, and Harry grinned.

'Harry, look.' Ron succeeded in his snatch for the notice. He was nearly as tall as the twins now, for all they had three years on him. He pointed to the name penned in swooping calligraphy beneath the word 'sponsor'. 'Sirius!'

 

Hogwarts School  _of_ Witchcraft _and_ Wizardry Proudly Announces The Return of the _Akademisches Mensur_

A Club _for the_ education _of_ Character, Honour, _and_ _the_ Art of _Rencontre_

Sponsored by the Lord Sirius _of the_ Ancient and Noble House _of_ Potter

To Begin Saturday _of the_ Fourth Week _of_ September promptly at Eight O'Clock _on the_ Quidditch Pitch

 

'What are all these funny words?' Harry wondered. 'Ach-a-dem-ish-iss...'

'German,' Hermione filled him in. 'And French. The English don't have a tradition of academic fencing and student duelling, really, so they borrow all the words from countries that do. Oh! Oh, you don't think Hogwarts will go in for...' Her voice dropped into a hush. 'Smiting?'

'How should I know?'

'You mean duelling scars?' Oliver asked around a mouthful of ham and beans. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and took back the notice. 'Sure do. My uncle Angus near lost an eye to it when he was at Hogwarts. You used to see it all the time-- it's a point of honour to go for the face, but there's all manner of hexes that leave lasting spell damage. You ever seen the Chief Auror, Rufus Scrimgeour? Got his limp in a duel.'

'My grandfather was a dueller,' Harry said, recalling what Remus had told him when he'd first met Lyall Lupin. 'He's been really poorly for a long time. Duelling must be awfully dangerous.'

'Exactly,' said Fred, eyes gleaming.

'Women love scars,' Oliver announced with a confident smirk. Percy clanged his cutlery on his plate, and Oliver nudged him. 'Do you up a good little slice to the cheek, eh, Perce? Make you irresistible.'

'I don't go in for scars,' Percy said stiffly, his cheeks suffused with red so that between his Gryffindor tie and ginger curls he was one solid colour.

'You sure? Works for Potter, don't it. Half the girls in first year follow him 'round drawin' wee hearts on his picture and practisin' their wedding vows. And some of the second year girls, too, and even some of the older years, I'd bet. Most famous duel in the Wizarding World, int it?'

'Leave him alone, Oliver,' Percy said shortly, and shoved his plate away. He gathered up his books and stalked off, his breakfast only half eaten, and Oliver staring after him, dismayed.

'I'm in,' Ron decided. 'Harry, wanna be my partner?' He lowered his voice as he nodded toward the rising tone of conversation throughout the hall. 'Best choose fast or they'll be all over you about it.'

'You, definitely,' Harry assured him hastily. Now he was looking for it, he could see several others had hold of the notice, too, and that meant sooner than later someone would come running to get Harry Potter as their partner. 'Hermione, will you come?'

'And watch boys get all sweaty fumbling about trying to hurt each other? It's not nearly as attractive as boys think it is.'

Oliver was drawn into reluctant laughter at this. 'Fair enough, luv. Right good fun, though.'

'I'll be your p-partner,' Neville chimed in unexpectedly, from the other side. He blushed when Hermione's bushy head turned toward him. 'You're the b-best in our year. Cept for Harry, maybe. I'd like to learn alls I can. Duelling can... duelling can save your life, if you're good enough.'

'No-one's good enough all the time,' Harry said. His mum had duelled Voldemort, the night the Dark Lord came for them. And James had been a dueller, too, and both of them had fallen. But so, he remembered, had Neville's parents, and Neville's downcast eyes and pale face said he was thinking of that, too. If Neville wanted to believe, though, who was Harry to say anything different?

Harry looked away, and coughed to clear his throat. 'We should all go,' he said. 'And we'll practise anything we learn later. All together.'

But that wasn't til Saturday, and they still had most of the week to get through. The fall term was in full swing, now, and everything the professors warned them about had come through. Their assignments were harder, longer, more intensive, and the magic they were learning was more difficult, too. Harry found he grasped instinctually what he was meant to do in Charms, but Charms just seemed so much more straight-forward; you memorised the incantation and waved your wand about a bit, and the thing you wanted to have happen did. Defence was like that, too, to the extent they were really learning anything in Defence. Lockhart was sillier than ever, even when he tried to actually teach them. He always started with the book, but every spell led him to a story, and so by the end of class they had learnt a great deal about how wonderful Lockhart was and very little about magic. Hermione, who remained quite taken with Lockhart's winking smile and thick lustrous hair, was nonetheless doing rigourous study on her own to keep up, and was beginning to experience a certain cognitive dissonance as it became clearer and clearer that Lockhart couldn't possibly have done all the fabulous things he claimed to have. Whenever Lockhart whipped out his wand to cast a spell, Harry cringed behind his desk, and he wasn't the only one. Lockhart's spells went wrong nearly every time. His pronunciation and conjugation were all wrong, Neville said, who spoke Latin as fluently as English. Hermione might insist that Lockhart was just brilliant enough to make his own alterations to spells, as the best wizards were able to, but even she winced a little when Lockhart brandished his wand.

Still, Defence was better than Transfiguration, where Harry made out with Acceptables so long as McGonagall pitied him. He was managing most his spells well enough, but Harry knew it was his wish magic-- what McGonagall said was him willing it so hard it worked-- and not because he was doing it right. Worse, when he got it absolutely perfect, the wand movements and the incantation both, that was when things tended to turn out wonky. The lesson on Transfiguring rosebuds into bowls produced his best ever result, a small cup of red clay with perfectly rounded sides, but the delicate flowery perfume it emitted wouldn't go away no matter how he tried. He couldn't change the essence of things no matter how many times he cast the spells. When she didn't pity him, McGonagall seemed to think he was doing it on purpose-- she chided him to stop resisting and docked him a point when he protested he wasn't resisting anything. He got poor marks on his homework, too, even with Hermione helping him. She said he didn't grasp the theory and she couldn't keep finding new ways to explain it. Harry found it exceedingly frustrating.

Even worse was Potions. Harry and his partners got another Acceptable on their third lab, but Poor on their group essay. Parkinson only spoke to Harry as if he were a dullard incapable of anything, and Draco blamed him, too, and both ignored every contribution Harry tried to make. Harry wasn't allowed to write anything original for their essay, only to copy out what Draco told him to write, and Snape seemed to know it even though there shouldn't have been a way for him to guess. In his brutal red ink he'd exed out Harry's entire section with no further comment. Draco upbraided Harry at length in the Library, so loudly Madam Pince descended on their table in a strop and banished him for the night. Parkinson went huffing off in Draco's wake, leaving Harry stewing.

Draco's moodiness was a mystery to Harry. He'd returned from Saint Mungo's Tuesday no visibly worse for wear, returned to his dorm by Remus who'd gone to fetch him once Mr Malfoy sent word he was unable to get free of his weekly obligations for the task. Harry could certainly understand why Draco might be sullen about that-- Millie told him in Care of Magical Creatures that neither of Draco's parents had been to see him in hospital-- but no sooner had Draco stalked out on him than Harry had found him waiting outside the Library for Harry, and Draco had apologised so miserably that Harry forgave him immediately. Draco had stood wiping his eyes and trying to get control of his face, so wretched that Harry had moved without thinking to embrace him. To his surprise, Draco had shoved him away and fled. He ran hot and cold and hot again all week, every time they saw each other. Harry didn't even have a chance to tell him about Dobby, as Draco worked so hard to avoid being alone with him.

Duelling Club had so many sign-ups that they'd circulated a second notice, splitting out upper years from lower. Everyone was abuzz with excitement-- it overshadowed even Quidditch tryouts, which were scheduled for the same afternoon. Nearly all of Gryffindor planned to join up. There were all manner of rumours flying about, everything from famous-- infamous-- instructors to forbidden hexes to the Aurors using the Duelling Club as a secret recruiting mechanism to Death Eaters using it for the same. And of course a lot of the buzz was for Lord Sirius Potter. Younger students didn't make the connection, but the older ones did, and Harry was pestered all week about whether Sirius Black was still mad, whether Sirius was a Dark Wizard, whether he'd taught Harry any Dark spells, whether he'd told Harry how he'd escaped Azkaban, which was still a great secret. The Slytherins wanted to know different things entirely-- like whether Sirius had taken control of Harry's Potter inheritance, how Sirius planned to vote in the Wizengamot-- they were especially interested in Sirius's views on immigration, import deals with the Continent, high unemployment in Wizarding Britain, the gold standard debate and tax reform. Harry said the same thing to each and every question: it was Sirius's business, not his. Most went away disappointed. The Slytherins, to a tee, all smiled knowingly and went away happy. Harry had no idea why.

Saturday dawned overcast and unseasonably chilly. Harry dressed in a hoodie and long jeans, with thick socks to stop his new trainers blistering his feet. He met up with Hermione in the Gryffindor common room, cramming in a little last-minute revision of her Defence text as she warmed near the fire. She looked quite toasty in a pinky woollen frock and jumper, her hair braided into two fat plaits tied off with a bit of sparkly ribbon. Harry gave the nearest one a flip as he threw himself onto a cushion beside her.

'Don't you have mittens?' she asked, peering him over. 'You'll want to keep your fingers limber.'

Harry played an imaginary piano in the air. 'Limber enough. I bet we won't do anything, first day. Probably it'll be a lot of lecturing about the rules.'

'Sirius,' Hermione reminded him.

'Fair enough.'

'Where's Ron?'

'Still sleeping.'

'You won't let him miss Duelling Club, though?'

'It's Dean's turn to wake him.' Harry propped his feet up closer to the glowing embers in the fireplace. He studied them carefully; he didn't put it past Snape to leave him with one foot bigger than the other. Or letting the Skele-shrink work just a bit too long and leave him one foot smaller than it had ought to be.

'Oh, stop, they're perfectly fine,' Hermione chided him. 'Harry, watch me and tell me if I'm doing this right.' She set her book aside and lifted her wand. She drew a long parabola through the air and crossed it with a quick downstroke. _'Porrum auris!'_

Harry threw a hand to his ear as something bulged and bristled there. It felt most peculiar. And it quite cut off his hearing. He stared at Hermione, deaf, as she said something, her mouth moving insistently. She dissolved into giggles.

'Can you undo it already?' Harry demanded, feeling along the strange stalks of whatever it was growing out his ears. Long, firm, a bit-- vegetably. 'What are these?'

Hermione inked her response on a bit of paper from her notebook and tore it free. It read 'Leeks'.

'Leeks?' Harry squawked. 'Well-- get them rid, then!'

She aimed her wand at him again. A brisk _Finite Incantatem_ got them gone, and Harry poked his fingers deep to make sure they hadn't left any roots. He dislodged a bit of dirt. Hermione giggled again when he showed her.

Half the school was crowded about on the Pitch. Some had only come to watch, and headed into the stands for seats, but it was quite the crowd nonetheless. A group of professors milled about on a wooden stage in the middle of the sands, chatting over cups of tea as the students gathered in. Harry waved to Sirius, who was wearing his fine blue robes from the hearing, open over a loose shirt and leather trousers. He was a dark foil to Gilderoy Lockhart, who had arrived in cream and gold and gleamed like the morning sun to Sirius's moonbeam. Or so whispered Lavender Brown, who swooned in good company with the other girls who stood in a tight bundle of fluttering eyes and blushing cheeks.

'You never told us your godfather's so gorgeous,' Millie accused Harry, giving him an elbow in the ribs that left him wincing.

Draco made an ungentlemanly noise. 'Wrong tree, Bulstrode.' He was eyeing Sirius too, with a little moue of a frown. 'Isn't Lupin coming?'

'What do you mean, wrong tree, Draco?'

'Nothing. Harry? Isn't Lupin coming?'

Asked and answered. Remus had come to the edge of the stage. He handed Sirius a steaming mug of something. Their heads bent together for a moment, Sirius's fingers snagged in his sleeve. Then Remus came to stand by their knot of students. 'Good morning,' Remus greeted them, smiling. 'Hullo, Draco. You're a sight better than earlier this week. All rested?'

A bit of pink suffused Draco's cheeks. 'Yes,' he said, voice tripping higher than usual. He cleared his throat. 'Yes. Thank you. Are you... are you well, Professor?'

'Very, and looking forward to seeing you all at your best.'

'Attention, attention, students!' Lockhart clapped his hands and raised them to quieten the crowd. 'Welcome, all of you. With no further ado I welcome all of you to Beginner's Duelling!' He beamed as spontaneous applause broke out. 'Such enthusiasm! How wonderful. Now let me introduce my dear friend and your sponsor, Lord Potter!'

Sirius shot him a dubious look, but took an uneasy bow to the slightly less enthusiastic applause that greeted him. The whispering that followed was bright with anticipation, as if they expected Sirius to do something mad or start killing people right in front of them.

'I was an Auror once,' Sirius began, and trailed off, fingering his wand uneasily. He cleared his throat and tried again. 'I was an Auror, in the war. Before. In my day I fought Death Eaters wand-to-wand, with my best mates at my back. In war you do things you'd never think you can do, push yourself to limits you don't even know you have. You won't learn that here. But what you are here to learn may well save your life some day. By that I mean reflexes. Instinct. I advertised this club as teaching you about character. Honour. There's no greater honour than standing tall in the face of evil and refusing to surrender.'

Breathless silence greeted this speech. He's talking about my dad, Harry thought, and looked at Remus and thought Sirius was talking about him, too. Remus wore an odd remote expression of regret and old pain; Harry had seen it on him before, whenever he spoke about Harry's parents. Draco was looking up at Remus, too. His eyes fell to Harry, and grew troubled. Draco looked away.

'Well...' Lockhart put on one of his brightest grins. 'Well, thank you for that sombre note, Lord Potter. Too right you are. One has but to look on these shining young faces to know the world will be safe beyond measure if we can but raise you up strong against the fiends and monsters of the world! And we shall do that here, dear children, we shall indeed do that here. Now let me also introduce-- thank you, Lord Potter, why don't you just go stand here, out of the way-- let me also introduce your instructors for our little club. Only the best and finest for Hogwarts, and fortunate for you, the best and brightest is-- moi!' He flourished a bow with a self-deprecating little laugh. 'But there's only one of me and so very many of you, I can't give you all the attention you deserve. How pleased I am to offer the services of two fine fellows who shall do their best to make up the difference, so don't be too disappointed! Ha-ha.'

Harry rolled his eyes.

'To my left, he's dark, he's dashing, he's a bit of a loner-- Professor Snape!' The Slytherins all clapped, of course, for their Head, and Harry clapped as he rather felt he ought to, especially since Remus did. Sirius rolled _his_ eyes.

'To my right, the-- where has he got to, he was just here-- ah! There you are, Filius!' Lockhart affected broad surprise at finding Flitwick standing waist-high to his side. 'He may be small, but he packs a punch! Professor Flitwick, everyone!'

A few embarrassed titters greeted that cringe-inducing announcement. Flitwick was a dear and was well-liked by all. Even Lockhart's biggest fans had a hard time overlooking that one.

'Good morning, my lambs,' Flitwick said, bestowing his kind smile on the crowd. 'Before we begin, I think we had ought to cover the rules. We are most concerned with maintaining your safety, so we've devised the following--'

'Terribly important, yes, safety first,' Lockhart nodded. His descending hand was probably aimed for Flitwick's shoulder, but he was too busy winking at the crowd to watch what he was doing, and so he steered Flitwick back from the edge of the stage by palming Flitwick's head and shoving backward. 'But rules are dead boring, am I right? Let's not begin our first session with dull prohibitions. I think a demonstration's what you've come for, yes?' He basked in the cheers that answered him. 'Of course you did! I've had you all primed reading about my daring adventures all month, it's time to put them into action!'

'Harry,' Ron murmured in his ear. 'A galleon he goes up against Snape and gets tossed on his arse.'

'No-one sane would take those odds,' Harry muttered back.

But it was worse than that. Lockhart could be terribly single-minded when he wasn't distracted by his own wondrousness, and he'd wanted one thing all summer: to be on stage with Harry Potter. Lockhart looked out on the crowd with gleaming greedy eyes, grinning his widest, and said the worst words Harry had ever heard.

'I'll need two volunteers!'

Every hand around him went up. All the older students, Fred and George straining on their toes and hopping where they stood near the front, and quite a lot of the younger ones. Colin Creevey looked fit to implode with eagerness, practically vibrating desperation to be picked. All the girls, who reliably volunteered in class when Lockhart wanted people to act out his escapades or read aloud lovingly from his books. But Lockhart only pretended to consider them. He had his eye on Harry all the while, and though Harry realised with dread what that meant and tried to duck behind Remus, Lockhart threw out a pointing finger and singled him out.

'Harry!' he cried. 'Let's get you up here, come on then.'

'Help,' Harry begged Remus, who bit his lips together against a grin and shook his head. His classmates were all applauding, gushing over as if Harry hadn't been the only one not to put his hand up.

'So modest,' Lockhart chuckled. 'Come along, son, no need to be so bashful. Let's bring up a friend to help you out-- Mr Weasley, why don't you join us?'

Ron didn't need a second invitation. He seized Harry's arm and dragged him along. The crowd parted helpfully, and Ron marched them right up to the stage, shoved Harry before him up the steps, and stood with his chest puffed out as the teachers cleared off for them. Harry had no choice but to endure as Lockhart got both hands on him, positioning him at one end of the stage, Flitwick doing the same to Ron. 'We'll coach you boys along,' Lockhart explained, 'and Professor Snape will serve as Arbiter. Now, for safety's sake--' Lockhart gave off an indulgent little grin and wink to the crowd. 'This won't be a real duel. We coaches will tell each of you exactly which spell to cast, and we'll confine ourselves to the common jinxes and minor hexes. Now, the two of you bow; a duel always begins with a bow between gentlemen, or gentle ladies, as the case may be!'

Lockhart bent Harry in half. Ron was freer, guided gently by Flitwick, and so didn't lose his balance and wobble the way Harry did. Harry pushed his glasses back up his nose and hoped they wouldn't fall off.

'Now, assume your stance!' Lockhart didn't wait for Harry to ask what that meant, jerking Harry by the shoulders and wrestling him into place like a puppet when he could just as easily have told Harry what he wanted him to do, but Harry let himself be prodded about and ended out turned sideways with his left shoulder leading and his wand hand hanging in the air behind his head, aiming overhand at Ron, his legs spread so far apart he actually sank a few inches shorter than usual. Ron lucked out, Flitwick put him in a much more normal-looking stance, one Cedric had showed them last year that kept your knees loose and let you hurl a spell along with the momentum of a forward lunge. Ron's grin disappeared as he concentrated, eyes bright. The look he got right before he destroyed Harry's pieces when they played Wizard Chess. That look didn't bode well for Harry.

'When Professor Snape calls "go", our two heroes will throw their first round,' Lockhart told the crowd. 'Let's give them both a big cheer for luck!'

The roar of the crowd was probably meant to be encouraging. Harry tightened his grip on his wand, wishing his palms hadn't come over damp. His heart was suddenly pounding.

Snape stood between them with a white kerchief in hand. He gave Harry a long look. Harry swallowed hard. 'Commence,' Snape declared, and let the kerchief fall as he swayed back out of the way.

'Quickly, Harry, cast the Jelly-Legs,' Lockhart boomed.

Well that was no good. Harry cast it, right enough, but Lockhart had been so loud Ron and Flitwick heard, and Ron deflected Harry's jinx with a strong _Protego_. Flitwick whispered, and Ron nodded, and took an only slightly clumsy step forward with a downswing. Harry hurried through a shield of his own, but his wand was so uselessly high that Ron's jinx dove beneath it and struck his feet. The sting of a thousand ant bites happening all at once erupted over his toes, and Harry yelped and danced away, stomping to a chorus of laughter from the crowd. Snape flicked a _Finite_ at him, and Harry limped back into place blushing hotly.

'Round Two!' Lockhart called, and Snape dropped his kerchief again.

'Furnunculus!' Lockhart bellowed, and Harry cast it, but at the same time Ron hurled a hex, and Harry reacted before his brain quite caught up with him. Ron had aimed at his feet before, and they were still vulnerable because of Lockhart's stupid duelling stance. Harry jumped, and felt the spell whizz beneath him. It caught Lockhart behind him, and Lockhart seized up, twitching all over. Harry eyed him warily as Lockhart fended off invisible tickles, grinning like a fool and utterly failing to help himself. Snape was the one who ended the hex, not without a look of satisfaction.

'Ha, ha, ha,' Lockhart giggled, and straightened up with a stretch. 'Ah, not bad, Weasley, not bad! I always say a good tickle is the start of a beautiful friendship.'

'What?' Ron asked, blinking over that one.

Lockhart smoothed his hair and got behind Harry again, hands on Harry's shoulders. 'All right, boys, let's really give your best now. Round Three! Now, Harry, I want you to give it your all, cast the Ducklifors!'

'I don't know that one, you haven't taught us--'

No time. Flitwick was miles better than Lockhart and with his instruction Ron was already casting. Harry wrenched at Lockhart's grip, but Lockhart had forgot to let him go and didn't move fast enough. There was no chance of getting his wand down in time. He squeezed his eyes shut and wished.

He felt the impact of something thudding into him. Or, rather, the air just in front of him. The hex bounced off, and Harry let out a huge breath he'd unconsciously sucked in. Then he heard the scream.

'Snake!' shrieked a third-year Hufflepuff, and there was a collective scramble to get back from the stage.

'Be still, Potter, I'll take care of this,' Snape said, striding forward.

The snake wound an agitated figure eight on the stage's boards. It hissed, rather crankily, 'I was in the middle of a very nice nap, you know.'

'Oh, sorry,' Harry replied, startled. 'Er-- we're having a bit of a duel. I don't think anyone meant to, uh, wherever you came from, get you?'

Brown and gold scales whispered along the boards. The snake slithered towards Harry. 'Apologies are all very well and good, but I'd prefer a mouse if you have one. A fat mouse.'

'I think all the mice and rats here are people's pets,' Harry told it hastily. 'I don't think it would be polite to, er, eat someone's pet.'

'That's not a very good apology, then,' said the snake.

'Maybe one of the teachers could Transfigure a mouse?' Harry looked up to find Snape, wand extended but frozen still, eyes bugging wide as he stared at Harry. 'I don't know if Transfigured mice taste the same as regular?'

'What in Merlin's name are you talking about, Potter?'

'The snake, he asked for a... mouse,' Harry faltered. It wasn't just Snape staring at him. Everyone was. In the dead silence he could even hear the little flick of the snake's questing forked tongue as it tasted the air.

'This place is very cold,' the snake told Harry disapprovingly. 'Are you getting me a mouse or not?'

'Harry,' Ron said in a very strangled voice. 'Are you-- are you _talking_ to it?'

'Well, no-one else was.'

The snake didn't take kindly to being ignored. It wound itself sinuously about Harry's trainers and up his calf, the diamond pattern on its head gleaming as it peered up from Harry's knee. There was a commotion as Sirius came charging up on stage, but Snape held him off, their faces mirroring a haunted fear. Lockhart tripped on himself getting away from Harry, scrambling back as the snake peered past Harry's legs at him.

Flitwick came gingerly toward him. 'Hold very still, Potter. _Finite--_ '

'Don't hurt it,' Harry said uncertainly.

'I'm only going to send it back where it came from.'

'But it's-- you know-- it's talking. It's alive, isn't it?'

The snake nosed at Harry's jeans pocket. 'Mouse?' it asked.

'Oh, here,' Harry said, digging in a hand to pull out a few Bertie's Botts beans he'd left in there the last time he'd worn the jeans. 'It's not a mouse, will you please just give me a moment--' The snake tickled Harry's palm with its tongue, scooping up the beans in a single gulp. 'I think those were malted vinegar and asparagus,' Harry told it.

'Not bad.'

'I think this might be a case for the Headmaster,' Flitwick told Snape, who swallowed hard and agreed.

 

 

 

 

Hagrid procured the requisite mice from his pumpkin patch, and the snake happily transferred to a large crate filled with spell-warmed rocks to digest its feast. Or so Dumbledore told Harry, up in his office an hour later.

Fawkes did not at all like the smell of a predator on Harry, even if it hadn't been the predator's idea. Fawkes scolded Harry in ringing tones and hopped all about with fluttering feathers pecking at Harry. Sirius watched as if he couldn't quite decide what to make of it all, his brows folded together in a frown.

'I'm sorry for ruining the duel,' Harry offered glumly.

'You didn't,' Sirius soothed him, giving Harry's hair a swipe. Fawkes screeched and pecked at his hand, and Sirius scowled.

'On the contrary, I believe you assured it will be quite the most memorable duel of the year,' Dumbledore added, smiling slightly. 'Mr Potter, there is no end to surprises from you, I see.'

Harry was not a stupid boy. He had gathered almost immediately there was something not on about talking to magical snakes, but no-one had given him any clues as to why. Like so many things in the Wizarding World, it seemed Harry simply didn't know enough to figure out what he'd done wrong. Sirius had accompanied Harry inside, and McGonagall as Harry's Head of House had been called up, but the adults had had an intense discussion behind the imepentrable wall of one of those silence spells that made everything sound like buzzing, and Fawkes was no use at all when it came to explaining wizard oddities.

'What did I do now?' Harry asked, quite despairing.

'It is not so much what you did, young man, as what you are.' Dumbledore folded his hands across his desk. 'You will not likely have heard the word "Parslemouth" before. One who speaks the language of serpents-- Parsletongue, that is-- is often called a Parslemouth.'

'I only speak English,' Harry said tentatively, as that sank in. 'Snakes have a language?'

'Serpents,' McGonagall told him, 'a class of magical creatures that includes, evidently, conjured snakes.'

'I don't think it was conjured, it said it was napping before, er, pardon, you think I was _speaking_ Purplemouth to the snake?'

'Parslemouth,' Sirius corrected him softly, and passed a hand over his face wearily. 'What do we do about this, Albus?'

'Do?' Dumbledore repeated mildly. 'Nothing.'

'Parsletongue is a bloody Dark gift, man, don't tell me we're not doing anything!'

'It's Dark?'

'It is not inherently Dark, Harry,' Dumbledore told him, smiling again. Harry took even less confidence from it than usual. 'It has in recent times become associated with the Dark, but it is merely rare, and I daresay many who might have had the gift never had an opportunity to discover it, not being confronted with the particular branch of duelling which involves the tossing of snakes at one's opponent. Rather creative on Filius's part,' he commented in an aside to Sirius.

'It's not rare enough to suit me,' Sirius said, slapping his palms on Dumbledore's desk and leaning on it heavily. 'Tell me this isn't something to do with Voldemort or I'll eat your bloody bird, will you please get it settled down?'

'Fawkes,' Harry said, grabbing the phoenix as he leapt between Dumbledore's chairback to Harry's shoulder yet again. He carried Fawkes back to his perch and set him firmly on it, imploring him to stay put and stuffing his beak with a biscuit to forestall another chiding.

Then the word Sirius had just said sunk in. Harry whirled about. 'Voldemort?'

Dumbledore sighed softly. 'Yes, Harry. It is true that Voldemort is a Parslemouth. And, yes, Sirius, I believe we must suspect Harry's ability has something to do with him.'

'But how?' McGonagall gasped, twining her hands in an unusual show of nerves. 'Why would Potter have-- develop--'

'It could be as simple as the gift being passed along in the moment the Killing Curse rebounded.'

'What the hell about that is simple?' Sirius demanded. 'That's never happened!'

'Consider of whom we speak,' Dumbledore said, spreading his hands imploringly. 'Harry himself is unprecedented. One could speculate a great many things about that night. Consider, for instance, whether it might, in fact, be counted as a duel. In that scenario, Harry would be the undisputed winner, and it is not unknown for the winner of a duel to collect a manner of magical prize from his opponent. There are legends--'

'Legends,' Sirius said flatly. 'Speculation. Albus. What do we _do_ about it.'

'Test it,' Dumbledore replied. 'I should think we'd begin with that much.'

More tests. Harry sighed.

 

 

**

 

 

'Harry, I'm so sorry,' Ron apologised again. It was the fourth or fifth time at least. He'd accosted Harry with one the moment Harry stepped through the portrait hole to the Gryffindor common room, and averaged one every ten minutes as guilt overwhelmed him anew.

They had a wide berth in which to enact their little play of remorse and forgiveness. The upper-years who had not been present had heard all about the duel at luncheon, and Oliver had gone the remarkable step of asking Harry to sit out Gryffindor's Quidditch tryouts. Harry's place on the team was assured, Oliver promised that, it was just he didn't want a distraction from getting new players selected, and after spending his lunch hour ostracised and exiled to a lonely spot at the end of the table, Harry conceded glumly Oliver was probably right.

Well, not totally ostracised. The Slytherins all seemed newly interested in him. Several had greeted him rather proudly in the corridors, even sixth and seventh years who'd generally ignored him before. For whatever reason, that seemed to make it worse with the other Houses.

'It's all right,' Harry said, again. 'It was well done of you, really. If that was your first time casting that hex.'

Ron was too upset to be proud of himself. 'Only Flitwick just told me what to say and how to cast it and to give it a jolly good try, and it worked, but I didn't know what it would do, not really.'

Hermione had been practising the hex for herself, repeating the incantation over and over and swishing her wand through the air. 'It doesn't seem terribly useful, actually,' she said then, looking up. 'It doesn't specify a poisonous snake, I'm pretty sure. And there's no guarantee the snake would actually bite, unless it was frightened, I suppose. But you said the snake was more... grumpy?'

'Hungry.'

'I've never much studied snakes, I've only seen the Reptile House at the zoo. I'll see if I can get any books from the Library. It does seem to me though that snakes mostly spend their time sleeping.'

'What's a zoo?' asked Neville.

'Wizards don't have zoos, really,' Hermione told Harry. 'It's like a menagerie, Neville, only they're quite large and usually in the middle of big cities or part of safaris where they make special environments for exotic animals. Harry, have you ever been to a zoo? Did you notice then you could talk to snakes?'

'Our only school trips in Berkshire were Windsor Castle and the Museum of English Rural Life, and I was ill and didn't get to go to Windsor Castle.'

'I think it's really interesting you can talk to portraits of snakes, though,' Hermione went on thoughtfully. 'So they tested you for live snakes, conjured snakes, magical pictures of snakes--'

'That one statue near the Infirmary of the snake all wrapped up the man's staff, I forget the name--'

'Asclepius,' said Neville. 'The Greek god of healing. Gran made me start on Greek this summer.'

'And Hagrid is looking for some Muggle snakes as well,' Hermione concluded. 'Aren't they awfully focussed on snakes? Maybe Parslemouth is for all reptiles? Didn't Professor Quirrell have an iguana? I bet we could find lizards in Diagon Alley, they're used for potions ingredients.'

'Maybe it's all animals,' Neville added, unused to being the first to have an idea, and stuttering shyly when all eyes turned to him. 'Well... only, you can talk to Fawkes, can't you? And you seem to sort of understand Sirius when he's being a dog.'

'Fawkes doesn't talk in words like the snake did,' Harry said slowly, turning that over in his mind. 'With Fawkes, it's more like... more like I just know what he wants. Which isn't much, usually, he just wants food all the time. Then again so did the snake.'

'Yeah, but no-one cares if Harry can talk to crazy birds and lizards,' Ron put in miserably. 'They care if he can talk to snakes like You-Know-Who. I'm _really_ sorry.'

'Is You-Know-Who the only one who ever had Parslemouth?' Hermione wondered.

'Dumbledore says there were a few other famous people who had it. There was a man in the sixteenth century, I think, who tried to write a saxyphone--'

'A what?'

'You know, like a dictionary or something?'

'Lexicon?'

'That. They teach it as a language at some magical school in Bulgaria, Sirius did an exchange year there, he said that wasn't precisely a recommendation, and... Salazar Slytherin.' Silence greeted this. 'I know,' Harry said. 'It doesn't look good, does it.'

'I'm sorry,' Ron moaned.

Harry made himself scarce the rest of the weekend, but when he emerged Monday morning he saw this had probably been a mistake. It had given people too much time to speculate and to think he was ashamed. He tried to brave out the whispers during breakfast, but that only lasted til the owls arrived with morning post, and people got their deliveries of _The Daily Prophet_. It was just like his first year, seeing his face splattered across the front page in black and white. The headline was: **POTTER A PARSLEMOUTH, EERIE AFFINITY OR PRECARIOUS PARALLEL?** The paper, and the stares of his fellow students, chased him down the corridors to Charms, and if Harry arrived suspiciously early, there was at least a better surprise swaiting him there.

'Remus?' he said. 'What are you doing here?'

'Professor Flitwick and I decided to teach a special week of combined classes,' Remus told him, turning away from where he was writing on the chalk board. He chucked Harry under the chin. 'How you holding up?' he asked quietly.

Harry only shrugged, not wanting to talk about it. 'Special week?'

'Well, one session for each year and House, it'll just take us a week to get everyone. Sit up front, won't you? Don't let them get you down, Harry.'

'Good morning, little chicks,' Flitwick greeted the class at the ring of the bell. He rubbed his hands together with an excited gleam in his eye. 'We'll be setting aside our scheduled lesson for the day, so put away your books. We have an enormous opportunity before us, a great and wonderful opportunity to examine a magic so rare that scholars of previous centuries could only begin to speculate. Today we will be discussing an exceedingly uncommon magical talent: Parsletongue.'

Heat flashed up Harry's face. He slunk low in his seat as everyone eyed him warily.

'Parslemouth,' Remus took up the lecture, using his wand as a pointer to indicate the board, 'is one expression of a field of magic that has fascinated wizardkind throughout our history. Some of the earliest spells recorded were for understanding the speech of animals and magical creatures-- those of you familiar with old wizarding nursery rhymes will recall the Cat's Eyes and Fox Heart songs? Yes, Seamus?'

Seamus, who had been at pains to ignore Harry in their shared dorm, now sat up blinking with his hand raised. He cleared his throat. 'Me mam used to sing a song about fox hearts,' he said. 'Like, to put me and me brothers to sleep at night. Something about... something about eating a fox heart to get its secrets?'

'Precisely, thank you, Mr Finnegan. There are dozens of ancient references to magical speech across every human culture. In Wales we have an old story, that a man who climbs to the mountains at night will come down either a poet or a madman, and the madman is always illustrated with a falcon to one shoulder and a wolf to the other. And that's to say nothing of religion, which is rife with examples of man interacting with creatures which speak to us. Can anyone think of any examples?'

Hermione's hand shot up, no surprise. Harry, glancing about uncomfortably, noticed many of the Muggleborn and half-blood students blinking, as if finding themselves surprised, and raising their hands as well.

'Sir, Eve spoke a serpent in the Garden of Eden,' Hermione said.

'Correct, and the implication of that Christian story is that the language of beasts was once known to man, but the knowledge was lost when people were expelled from the Garden for sinning. Yes, Ms Patil?'

'Professor, the Mother Goddess and Kali are shown with lionesses.'

'Yes, excellent example,' Remus said, writing that on the board beneath the words 'Eden/serpent'. 'Adi Shakti, Durga, and Kali are all goddesses depicted with various animals in art and myth, especially large predators like lionesses. Mr Thomas?'

'The Hopi in North America have the Snake Dance, sir.'

'Yes, if any of you ever have an opportunity to learn about the Native Americans you'll see quite a few instances of snakes, horses, wolves, et cetera. The Hopi have a fertility dance celebrating the union of the Snake Youth and the Snake Girl.'

'Professor, what about dragons?'

'Very good connection, yes. Asian and European cultures do love their dragons, and they're almost always represented as serpents in ancient times, even used interchangably. Our languages used to reflect that difference more closely: in Old English, the word for dragon is "wyrm".' Remus wrote that on the board, and about-faced. 'The point of all this is that mankind, and wizardkind amongst them, used to live in much greater concert with the natural world, and we looked upon creaturekind as spiritual guides, symbols of healing or of war, help-meets and dangeours predators, all sorts of ideas all jumbled together at once, but much nearer to us than we consider them today. How many of you have familiars, or have a family member with a familiar?'

Ron raised his hand uncertainly. 'My brother Percy has a rat, he's been with us for years.'

'Rats are very common familiars, yes. They're quick and clever, quite tameable, they can solve problems, they're receptive to magic. But there's also a long history of fearing rats in Europe-- can anyone guess why?'

Hermione was on it immediately. 'The Black Plague, sir.'

'Very right, my dear,' Flitwick nodded. 'The Black Death nearly destroyed the Muggle population of Europe, and its devastation turned Muggles against wizardkind. They blamed us when our cures could not save them, or hated us for our immunity to their disease. You'll learn all about witch burnings in History of Magic, but rats and death often go hand in hand in history, even if we've largely forgot about it these days.'

'All of this brings us back to today's subject,' Remus said, smiling out at them. 'Parslemouth. Oh, I can't tell you all how entirely exciting this is, to have someone amongst us who can demonstrate this wonderful and unique gift. Harry, could I impose on you to come to the front?'

Oh, God. This was as bad as Lockhart making him volunteer. Remus wouldn't be out to humiliate him, though, would he? Remus wore his most encouraging look, waving him forward, and when Harry glanced sideways at the other students as he slouched to the front he thought no-one looked angry or suspicious anymore-- more confused, some of them, and a few even intrigued. Remus was levitating a big crate out, setting it on the floor.

'All of you, come close,' he said, reaching in to lift out the snake Ron had conjured during the duel. 'It's quite safe. What we have here is a Ball Python or a Royal Python, as it's sometimes called. Non-venemous, that means its bite can't poison you, if in fact it ever bites at all-- these types of snakes rarely bite, even in the wild. She's quite gentle, actually, and rather brave for her sort. Does anyone know why they're called Ball Pythons?' He held the snake out before them all as everyone came creeping in, flinching. The snake wove lazy loops about his arms, tasting the air curiously with its tongue. 'When they're startled or upset, they roll into tight little balls, all this long length of them, and they just roll away. It's quite silly-looking.'

'It's pretty, isn't it?' Lavender blurted.

Remus smiled at her. 'She is, and I think she'd like that compliment. Harry, could you please tell our python that Lavender thinks she's lovely?'

'Oh. Uh.' Harry worried his lower lip. The only thing he'd been sure of during Saturday's round of snake testing was that he had to be looking at the snake to get it to come out in Parsletongue. So he concentrated on the snake circling Remus's wrist, and said, 'Er, good morning. It's Harry. The boy from before. The girl-with-purple-flowers--' That was interesting. He'd been trying to say Lavender, but there wasn't really a word for it in snake, evidently. 'Thinks you are nice to look at.'

The snake tilted its head at Harry. There were a couple of fat lumps its length-- it had had a good breakfast of its own, and was now content and pleased. 'The girl-with-purple-flowers is very intelligent,' it replied. Harry translated that, and everyone laughed.

'Would anyone like to hold her?' Remus asked. 'She's very docile. And very full-- we fed her just before you all got here.'

'I will,' Neville volunteered, and carefully accepted the snake into his hands with his breath held tight. Everyone stared, ready to scream, but the snake made a little loop around his sleeves and poked its nose at his shirt cuff and nothing more dangerous than that. 'She's sort of cold and scaly-feeling,' Neville reported.

'Snakes are cold-blooded,' Remus explained. 'That's why they like sunny, dry spots to rest in. Hagrid's building a habitat with a hot lamp for her.'

'Can you ask her where she came from, Harry?' Dean wondered, leaning in to look.

'She says, well, she sort of described it more than named it,' Harry reported. 'She said it's the green-place-by-the-big-water and her rock-that-gets-the-best-sun.'

'Has she ever eaten a person, Harry?'

'She's too small to eat people, you prat,' Lavender told Ron scornfully. 'Can I hold her, Neville?'

'She says she likes mice best, but yesterday she ate all the gross Bertie Bott's beans,' Harry told them, and this prompted quite a few of his classmates to empty their pockets with offerings-- everything from ice mice-- 'Look, mice for her!'-- to chocolate wands to all the grossest Bott's beans anyone had on them-- 'Liver and onions! I've got oyster! This one's grass I think, does she eat grass? Try earwax!' Everyone crowded around tempting the snake with their treats, and she greedily ate everything Flitwick allowed them to offer, though Flitwick thought she was probably going to get a stomach ache if she had too much sugar, to which the snake told Flitwick to mind his own business.

Harry looked up when he felt Remus's hand at the small of his back. Remus gave him a small, private smile, and Harry returned it.

'Thank you,' he whispered.

'Always,' Remus answered.

'Now, children, in honour of our snake I thought we could learn a charm today that will give us all the opportunity to see through different eyes,' Flitwick announced. 'No, no, let's all stay here on the floor together, our snake will give us a proper visual. I've written the incantation on the board, let's all say it together: _Serpens Oculi._ '

Remus retreated to Flitwick's desk as the students practised the charm. He watched for a time, but soon enough his head bent over an inkpot and a bit of note-taking. He looked up to smile as Hermione aced her charm, but went back to his work immediately. Harry only noticed when Remus abruptly closed the little notebook and tucked it into his robe.

It was a black book.

 


	8. Fear Its Prologues

Snape sent the invitation-- well, the command-- with Wednesday's owl post. Harry's extra Potions lessons were to continue, Friday every week directly after his Potions lab. Snape also gave him an assignment for the first session, to locate a book in the Library and read the first two chapters. Harry greeted this with a groan. Not only would Quidditch start up soon, meaning Harry's weekends would take a severe crunch as Oliver Wood placed great store in rigourous practises and intensive revision of the playbook, but there was also the increased workload of classes. Harry would be hard-pressed to keep atop everything, and that was to say nothing of the secret doings of Latin Revision with the Knights. Harry said a gloomy good-bye to the very notion of free time.

So come Friday Harry stayed behind to clean up his station and make a few discreet adjustments to the potion he, Pansy, and Draco were brewing. Draco had been positively dictatorial during the lab, closely monitoring every move his two partners made, personally re-doing any step he felt they hadn't managed to proper snuff, and even at one point telling Harry how to stand, as Harry's posture proved him incapable of going about it unaided. The resulting potion, a stomach-soother that could, brewed incorrectly, liquefy the guts and sluice them right out of you (according to the gory picture in their textbook), was meant to be the colour and consistency of mint toothpaste at the close of the first stage. Theirs had come out quite green and smellt of leeks. Harry, spared Draco's cutting tones and dagger-sharp rebukes, availed himself of the powdered milkweed and sprinkled two scruples each into their three cauldrons. He stirred carefully and nodded to himself, pleased to see the colour evening out and the odour much reduced.

Snape wore a single arched brow when Harry about-faced and found his professor watching. 'I...' said Harry, intelligently, caught out. 'I didn't mean to cheat.'

'You didn't mean to be seen cheating,' Snape corrected, accurately. 'Why the milkweed?'

'To counteract the vinegar.'

'Obviously. Why the milkweed _now_ , not during class?' Snape placed a bowl of beans soaking in water at Harry's station.

Because it was easier than arguing with Draco. Harry thought better of verbalising that, and only shrugged.

'No points,' Snape said, 'this time. In future, however, I will not be so kind. You will not always have the opportunity to sneak about correcting mistakes. If you know you are in the right, stand up for yourself. Or let Malfoy fail and prove you ought to be the leader.'

'He'd be awfully angry if I did that. And we're meant to be working as a team, you said.'

'And are you working as a team now?' Snape enquired. 'Use your head, Potter, not just that bleeding heart. Leave that for now. Peel the skins from these-- make sure to get all of it and don't split the beans in the doing. And no short-cuts-- I don't want you taking out chunks through careless cutlery.'

Harry scooped up a few of the large, flat beans from the bowl. The skins had a slightly slimy feel and no obvious place to begin peeling. With some squinting, he discovered at last he could use the edge of his fingernail to slice through the skins and pull them off in one or two tugs. 'Aren't these fava beans?'

'They are.' Snape settled himself at his desk in front with a pile of marking, dragging near a large pot of red ink.

'What potion uses fava beans?'

'None. I'll be stewing those for supper. Peel the garlic next.'

Harry glared. It had absolutely no effect, as Snape was paying him no mind at all. With a sigh, Harry settled himself on locked knees and did as he was bid.

Some minutes passed that way in silence. Harry cast a few longing glances as the warm summery day he was sure waited beyond the dank dungeon door, but peeling the beans required more concentration than usual, given Snape's instructions. Harry accumulated a pile of brown skins to one side and a pile of beans to the other, though it seemed the contents of the bowl never reduced. How many beans did Snape mean to eat, a week's worth?

'Has the student body begun to settle on the issue of your Parseltongue?'

Harry glanced up. Snape read a long scroll with a cool disdain, but looked overtop the sheaf to meet Harry's eyes.

'Good, I think,' Harry said. 'The  _Prophet_ didn't write anything about it today. Maybe it'll blow over now?'

'I have yet to hear the Sorting Hat list foolish optimism as a virtue, yet you Gryffindors make holy hay out of it. It will be more than a week of kumbaya-ing lessons from Lupin to overturn a decade of fear and distrust.'

'You really think so?' Harry said, disappointed. 'What's Voldemort even got to do with snakes?'

'For the umpteenth time, Potter, do not use that name.'

'I thought it didn't matter now he's gone?'

'He is gone, but not dead, and there is little wisdom in provoking what remains.'

'Dumbledore said--'

'The Headmaster says a great many things and none of them in this room, and therefore not pertinent to this conversation.' Snape wrote a lengthy comment in red and tossed the essay aside. He rolled his eyes immediately at the next he took up, and began liberal crossings-out straight at the top. 'Has anyone from Slytherin approached you?'

'No more than usual.'

Snape's head tilted up, dark eyes narrowed. 'Meaning?'

'They don't want anything, but they want to know if I want anything and if they can get it for me.' Harry accidentally split a bean, and buried it at the bottom of the pile. 'Millie thinks I should take up a lawsuit against the  _Prophet_ for libel, whatever that is. She said she has an uncle who's a barrister who'd take my case.'

'Miss Bulstrode may have a point.'

'Remus says the  _Prophet_ is a bellwether and it's useful to know what they're blathering on about.'

'You should worry less about the  _Prophet_ signalling a trend than about them inciting one. The press are capable of doing you a harm with headlines like these. The shine has rather worn off your re-entry to the Wizarding World, and they will be eager to plump their readership with a new angle. I'm not necessarily advocating a Bulstrode as your solicitor, if only to avoid whatever rant Black might put up about it, but I am in no doubt that Lupin has some connexion sub-rosa used to shady dealings. A bit of subtle persuasion may work better where blunt resistance would not.'

Harry gave up attempting to follow that almost immediately. Given sufficient time, Snape would explain himself in excruciating detail, in condescending tones to make sure Harry was grasping the details at a level the averagely gifted toad could understand. 'What does suing the  _Prophet_ have to do with class at Hogwarts?'

'A similarly puerile grasp of the politics of memory and reputation.'

'Sir?' Harry broke another bean. 'No-one seems to actually know why Vold-- sorry, er,  _him_ \-- has a reputation about snakes.'

Snape tossed aside this essay, too, but didn't immediately take up another. 'Lupin hasn't shared any _bon mot_ from his personal perspective on history?'

'He doesn't talk about where he was during the war.' Harry slipped a fingernail through the skin of a bean, and hesitated. 'Rita Skeeter... Rita Skeeter wrote a book. Was writing a book. About me, and, and Sirius and Remus and my parents. She says, that is, she wrote that Remus...'

Snape liked that bit of gossip. He'd gone keen with interest, his long nose scenting a scoop. 'Finish your sentence so I can ask the first thousand questions that occur to me.'

'Only, she says where Remus went was a big mystery, and even she couldn't find out. Well,' Harry corrected himself slowly. 'Actually, she didn't finish the book, and there were some things she seemed to be keeping for a big reveal, so maybe she did know and she was just saving it up.'

Snape snorted. 'It's no great secret to anyone paying the slightest attention. That's Lupin's only real talent, remaining inconspicuous despite near total lack of credentials which would excuse his presence. But back to the relevant information: how do you know Skeeter was writing a book, and why is it "was" writing? What's stopped her, since I cannot imagine any force found in nature would stopper that woman's motoring gob.'

Harry suddenly found the beans terribly interesting. 'You remember last year, when you wanted to visit the Dursleys to ask about my headaches? And Mr... Mr Malfoy came to talk to me.'

Snape was on his feet and coming toward Harry as if magnetised. 'Oh, I most certainly do recall. And you agreed to several disastrous terms, which required no less than Nicolas Flamel to free you.'

'Well, she was writing a book. And Mr Malfoy found out and got some legal thing to stop her doing. He gave me the book. I read it,' Harry confessed, shoulders hunched tensely.

Snape dismissed that immediately. 'Of course you did. But it was unfinished? What else didn't it cover?'

'How should I know what it didn't cover?'

'Black's innocence, for one. However thinly sliced that definition may be. Any damning details of James Potter's involvement with Dumbledore and the Ministry-- or Lily Potter's, for that matter. All that business with selling old Potter estates, ostensibly to shed flat investments. Or did you never wonder how the Potters came to die in Godric's Hollow, a place in which they had no connections or family?'

Harry hadn't known that. He knew about Godric's Hollow and knew as well that the house his parents had died in was still there, in ruins, and that Remus didn't really want Harry to see it because he had never suggested they go, even though they had held a few weekend parties with Harry's friends at Potter Manor at the summer hols. It had never really occurred to Harry to wonder why his parents had been in a house far away from the Manor. Had he ever thought, Harry might have supposed it was merely a better hiding spot than the Manor, which was rather conspicuous, after all. 'No,' Harry said. 'She didn't cover that.'

'Hmph.' Snape overturned Harry's pile of skinned beans. 'Be more careful with these, you're nicking the flesh. And take care in future not to advertise any newly discovered talents. The Wizarding World is no more tolerant of difference than any closed and isolated community. You may find yourself notorious as readily as famous, and you are not likely to enjoy that experience nearly as much.'

Harry had just as soon be normal, or as normal as any wizard, than be famous. In his experience, fame was uncomfortable at best and terribly inconvenient at its worst. People assumed they knew all about him because they'd read an article in _Witch Weekly_. When Harry didn't act the way they expected him to, they could be quite upset about it. Snape was the perfect evidence of that. He was well enough now with Harry, but he certainly hadn't begun that way.

'Still,' Harry said, earning himself a look over the shoulder as Snape returned to his desk and his marking.

'What, still?'

'I still don't know why everyone's so afraid of talking snakes.'

'Talking  _to_ snakes. Ordering them to do villainous things.' Snape seated himself heavily. 'And you won't hear many speak of it, no. You won't hear much at all about the atrocities during the war. Collective amnesia or some Victorian notion of a stiff upper lip, it hardly matters. The effect is the same. That which we studiously forget we may be doomed to repeat. The murder of unicorns the night of the Dark Lord's attack on Hogwarts is but one of the milder examples of what a twisted mind is capable.' Snape toyed with his quill, stroking the feather along the spine. His dark eyes glittered. 'At Black's trial. What did you notice about the Wizengamot?'

That was asked in the same catch-you-out tone with which Snape fired questions at students during class. Harry cast about for a good answer, knowing Snape meant him to have picked up on some small but salient detail which would hold the key to a great many more. 'Er... they're mostly quite old. Like Dumbledore. That woman who asked whether Veritaserum could be got around looked like she was two hundred at least.'

'You've nearly got it. Why should they all be quite so elderly?'

'Well, maybe it just takes that long to get the honours? Although--' Harry paused himself, picking over a bean with a particularly stubborn skin. 'Although Sirius is young, and he's taking both the Black and the Potter seats.'

'Come, Potter, work through it. You've got the clues, put them together.'

Harry gnawed his lower lip. 'And Sirius is taking both seats because he's the only one left of his family and I'm the only one left of mine. Maybe... maybe all those other Ancient and Noble families don't have anyone either?'

'Now the why of it.'

Somehow Harry just knew. He looked up to meet Snape's eyes. 'The war,' he said. 'Voldemort killed them all.'

'Doubtless he'd like the credit, but it wasn't just the Dark Lord. What's the first thing we did in class? I've already explained this, don't make me repeat myself.'

Harry cast back on the potions they'd brewed so far in term. 'Dragon pox? Oh! Dragon pox killed my grandparents, Remus told me that, and I think maybe Remus's mum too, he said she died before he left school.'

'The pox took half the Wizarding World. And the half it left behind were vulnerable to the grandstanding of any half-wit who promised succor. I suppose to many a return to tradition, a retreat from the frights of the wider world seemed safest. For others, it was the chance to seize for themselves the privileges of newly vacated ranks too long the preserve of the Ancient and Noble lines.' Snape's long fingers bent the quill into an arch, then let it go to spring straight. 'The Dark Lord sent a horde of serpents to poison some forty-nine members of the Wizengamot in their beds the Vernal Equinox of '77. Seven times seven in the year of seven-seven, on the Light's highest holy day. Many a line devolved to spinster aunts or cousins in the wake of that massacre. Those who were left voted as they were told and left the open defiance to anyone unwise enough to think themselves safe beyond reach. A serpent in the night, Potter, that's a powerful deterrent. Then, too, there were tales-- that the Dark Lord could command more than simple snakes. Snakes can be killed. There are serpents far more deadly. Though I never saw the proof of it myself, it was widely rumoured the Dark Lord commanded a basilisk, that he had some remote cave full of its victims who might be turned to Inferi. How many who went missing were merely disposed of in some quiet way? And how many might the Dark Lord have been saving up for some nefarious purpose, an army in waiting? So you see, Potter, why the Dark Mark is the most feared sigil of the modern age.'

Harry knew about the Dark Mark. Remus had told him to watch for it, when they'd all still thought Sirius was a Death Eater who'd escaped Azkaban with no other aim but revenge on Harry. The skull and snake were ugly, strange, repellent. Harry could very well understand how it had frightened so many people so very badly.

'So what do I do about it?' Harry asked, dropping the bean to one side and digging out the last few from the bowl of murky soaking water.

'From where I sit, Potter, I see two paths for you. Loudly and vehemently deny any association with both serpents and the Dark Lord-- in which case you might employ a solicitor to put the fear of God into the  _Prophet_ and any other publication which dares to print your name beside his. But that may only draw further attention to the problem. Lupin would have you embrace it and stain it with a little good will, draw the venom out of it, so to speak. But this may only serve to remind people of what they do not understand and do not know about you, and people are ignorant, easily frightened, and slow to forgive. It is far easier to taint a reputation than it is to clear one. Ask your guardians if you want further evidence of that.'

'There isn't a third path where I just ignore it and it goes away?' Harry asked plaintively.

Snape favoured Harry with a long stare. 'I thought you were a Gryffindor, not a silly house elf.'

Harry finished the beans and took up the bowl of garlic. The papery skin of the bulbs was much worse than the bean skins, and clung to Harry's damp fingers. 'So no matter what I do, it ends the same. So why do anything? Shouldn't I wait and see?'

'Wait and see what? I suppose you might wait and see who proves your friend and who your enemy in this. The results might surprise you. Wait and see what happens next, for I very much doubt this is the end of the year's revelations. Wait and see whether Parseltongue proves a remnant of the Dark Lord's influence or a sign of his returning strength, oh, yes, we shall have to wait and see about that, since the Headmaster will not permit the sort of tests which would provide conclusive proof.'

'He made me do all sorts of tests already! All I bloody do is tests!'

'Language, Potter, and for that I will have five points. And points for foolish ignorance, boy, if you believe the Headmaster has permitted us to even begin to test you. Your abilities, your lack thereof, your magical allergy, your headaches, your susceptibility to the Dark Lord's mental invasion, Parseltongue, the list is growing by the minute and I do not have a shred of doubt it is all connected. And now this elf of Malfoy's warning you of danger in the school? If that is a coincidence I'll eat my crystal stirring rod. You've been touched by the Dark, boy, and it is not benevolence to let you walk amongst us without ascertaining exactly how and for what purpose.'

Harry felt a chill come over him. 'Dumbledore...' He coughed as his voice caught roughly in his throat. He ripped apart a bulb, scattering cloves across the tabletop. 'Dumbledore says he'll come back.'

'He will,' Snape agreed grimly. 'I, for one, would prefer to be ready.'

 

 

**

 

 

Saturday dawned clear and cold. Harry was awake to see it, having spent the night in a troubled state that was half awake and half dreaming, and all the dreams had scattered before he could quite hold on to them, but he knew they were all bad. He sat in the window, wrapped in his duvet and fingering his mother's wand.

Touched by the Dark, Snape said.

Danger in the school, said Dobby. 

Beware the black book. Remus had it now. But if Harry went and got it... what if that was the danger? Harry having something Dark in his possession, and doing... something Dark.

'All right, Harry?'

It was Neville. Neville stood rubbing sleep from his puffy eyes, rolling up the too-long sleeves of his old-fashioned pyjamas. The legs hung long, too, and he stepped on the cuffs as he climbed into the window seat at Harry's invitation. Their knees knocked as they looked out the window at the thick fog that robed Hogwarts in a white spun blanket that sparkled as if dotted with diamonds, all the way to the distant mountains.

Abruptly Harry said, 'Snape reckons I ought to be bunkered away testing for what else Volde-- him-- did to me when he cursed me.'

'I thought we went through this last year already,' Neville answered. Both boys spoke softly, aware of the snores and slow stirrings of their sleeping dorm mates. 'When Headmaster Dumbledore meant to send you back to your Aunt and Uncle because of the blood wards.'

'Maybe both of them saying it is proof I ought to be doing as they say.'

'What's Remus and Sirius say?'

Harry picked at a fraying spot in the hem of his tee shirt. 'I haven't told them.'

'But they didn't agree with the Headmaster. Why would they agree with Professor Snape?'

'But what if they're wrong?'

'Then I think it's down to what you want.' Neville drew a line in the condensation on the window. 'And you don't want to be bunkered away, or you'd've agreed to go back to the Dursleys.'

Harry drew a slow breath. 'I don't want that,' he said softly. 'I just think maybe it's worth pointing out to everyone why it might be a problem someday soon.'

'Well pointed out, then.' Neville smiled at him. 'So what's next?'

Next took some doing. Harry gathered his Knights at breakfast, and between them all they arranged a distraction. Harry wrote a note to Sirius-- nothing more important than a hello, and wishing him good luck in cleaning up the Black house in London-- but the crucial stratagem was securing Colin Creevey to deliver it to the Owlery on Harry's behalf. Colin had a singleminded devotion to following Harry at the weekends, and could be counted on to broadcast Harry's every move simply by pacing behind him loudly asking questions. Getting shot of Colin was an important first step. Once Colin was occupied, the next bit of business was engaging Remus in a similar gambit. Draco was chosen for this.

And Draco loudly protested his role. 'Why should it be me?' he demanded. 'I want to go along with the rest of you simpletons.'

'You're the least suspicious,' Hermione tried to explain. 'Professor Lupin won't suspect you're lying to get him out of the stable.'

'I'm a Slytherin, of course I'm suspicious.'

'But don't you see, that's why he won't suspect you, he'd assume if we were meaning to trick him you'd be the too-obvious choice. Therefore, when it's you who comes to get him out of there, he'll think it must be real.'

'You're just upset Hermione thought of it and not you,' Ron guessed, around a mouthful of bacon bappy. He dribbled brown sauce on his sleeve, and Draco huffed at him in disgust.

'I thought you'd be glad to get a chance at Professor Lupin alone,' Neville said innocently, but his eyes twinkled wickedly, and he seemed very pleased with the instantaneous flush that came over Draco hairline to collar. Harry looked on curiously, and opened his mouth to ask what was the matter, but he was interrupted before he could begin.

'I say, good morrow, swains, good morrow, fair maid!' It was Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, one of the castle ghosts. He had a very gloomy look about him, which was not precisely unusual-- ghosts were generally gloomy sorts, having long outlived everyone they knew and everything they were used to-- but Sir Nicholas had done them a good turn last year when they were trying to figure out what was going on with the Order of the Phoenix all lurking round the castle. They greeted him heartily and hurriedly, as they were on the clock with Colin Creevey having departed the very moment Harry handed over his letter.

'You're very kind, dear children,' Sir Nick thanked them with a maudlin sigh. 'Such kindness is a balm in a hard-hearted world.'

'Er, I'm sorry for whatever's wrong,' Harry said, edging Draco off his chair with an elbow. Draco took the hint and absented himself with a bow, hurrying off.

'Thank you, dear boy.' Sir Nick pretended to prop himself up against the table-- ghosts floated, and so couldn't properly sit-- but he laid his head in his hand, at such an angle as to make obvious the sickening gap between chin and neck ruff. Hermione paled and looked hastily away. Ron, interest piqued, peered over her head to get a better look. 'It's a damned terrible day, excusing my vehemence, a damned terrible day.'

'Nothing to cure a down day like a nice walk, er, flit outside,' Harry tried.

'I should very much enjoy a good ride, but that's the problem,' Sir Nick moaned.

'You don't have a ghost horse?'

'My application, Master Harry! My application's been denied once again.'

'Your application? To what?'

'The Headless Hunt. Oh, you flesh-bound beings won't understand, but amongst my kind it's the highest honour! To be denied is a grievous insult, a smirch upon my honour!' Nick bellowed, drawing attention from other tables and even the teachers at the head table. McGonagall shook her head and went back to her kippers. 'Turned down this year by that-- that-- that goatherd I shan't even dignify with a name!'

'No, no, you shouldn't,' Cedric agreed, easing out of his seat and grabbing for his bag. 'We'll just be off--'

'Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore!' Nick snarled. 'He that calls himself "The Headless Horseman" as if there aren't dozens of them in England alone, a hundred if you count the Spanish and the French, and one must, I suppose. Application denied on Sir Patrick's signature, with a scandalous slur-- quotha, "Dear man, you're only  _nearly_ headless!"'

'Well, you are,' Neville said.

' _Nearly_ headless!  _Nearly headless!_ A finger's width-- a half an inch at most-- a shred of skin remaining after forty-five blows with a dull axe, and I am doomed to exclusion for being only  _nearly headless_. Nearly was bloody well good enough for my executioner and his Royal Majesty the King of England!'

Automatically Harry tried to pat Sir Nick on the shoulder. His hand went through, of course, and he shuddered at the feeling of plunging his hand into something freezing cold and strangely electric-feeling. He rubbed it against his knee. 'Nearly headless is good enough for me, for all of us, certainly.'

'You are kind,' Nick repeated, but seemed a little lifted by their encouragement. 'Still, better all that hurt than to be accepted amongst such false and ill-tempered company, eh? I shall count myself the richer for exclusion from such a club! Who needs such men when better company surrounds me now. I must reward your generosity! Tell me, Master Harry, what prior engagement might you and yon courtiers have come All Hallow's Eve?'

'Prior engagement? Um, none, I think,' Harry said. 'Aside from classes and Quidditch and such.'

'Then I must have you as a guest of honour!'

'Oh, er, thank you. I'd be, uh, honoured. Only-- guest of honour at what?'

'Why, my Death Day party! It is quite an anniversary event this year, for I was beheaded IN MY ENTIRETY,' Sir Nick said loudly, checking round him to be sure all had heard him, 'in Year of our Lord 1492--'

'Five hundred years, oh my!' Hermione said. 'That is indeed a grand event. We'd be happy to attend. In fact, Sir Nicholas, honoured, greatly honoured, and I think I should begin research on proper attire and traditional gifts for such an auspicious invitation. Begin research immediately.' She shoved to her feet. 'Master Harry, if you could accompany me to the Library? And Ronald and Neville, you had best come too, I believe I'll need a great many books.'

'I'll escort you,' Cedric said hastily. 'It wouldn't be proper for second years to be unaccompanied should you need access to the Restricted Section.'

'You are most kind,' Sir Nick beamed at them. 'And such manners! You are exemplars _non pareil_  to your peers. I shall issue formal invitations anon!'

Hermione dipped into a courtsey. The boys bowed, much less elegantly than Draco, though Neville was more practised than the rest of them. Then they scurried headlong for the doors.

They were in time to see Draco leading Remus out of the stables. Harry gestured for the others to duck out of sight behind the standing stones. He wondered what excuse Draco had used-- Hermione had only told him to be creative and think of something that would take an hour at least. They were headed not towards the castle, but to the Forbidden Forest. Remus put a hand on Draco's shoulder as they walked. Even at a distance Harry could see that Draco was quite red-faced. Harry watched til they disappeared over the hill past Hagrid's hut.

'Let's go,' he told the others, and they ran for the stables.

The thestrals were sleeping in their stalls, mostly, except for a calf or whatever the babies were called; it knickered with a peculiar squawk, a pathetic little sound altogether. Hermione stared round, trying to locate the source of the sound, but she couldn't see thestrals-- Remus had told them last weekend that only those who had witnessed a death with their own eyes could see the mysterious beasts, and promised they'd do a lesson on them next term. Cedric was the only one besides Harry who could see them-- he'd been sitting vigil with his great-grandmother when she passed, and Harry of course had witnessed his parents' deaths. Harry found the thestrals curiously sweet-tempered, always eager for a caress, but the fact that they only ate raw or rotten food and looked so very corpse-like themselves was rather terrifying. He tugged Hermione onward, and led the climb up the ladder to Remus's loft.

He'd no sooner poked his head in than he stopped dead, however. Neville bumped into Harry from below. 'What's the hold-up?' Ron wondered.

'Are we sure we're in the right stables?' Harry crawled over the ledge, pushing himself upright. The others piled up behind him, all gaping as Harry did. The loft had been transformed. Last week it had been all unpainted boards, drippy ceiling, and droopy bed. But Harry stood on a lush woollen carpet of deep red, under an elaborate crystalline chandelier, facing a bed draped in rich velvet and overflowing with pillows. And the ceiling had been hung with swoops of fabric that hid the boards from view and the walls with tapestry to keep in the warmth of the fire that glowed behind an elegant iron screen, and the table had been set with layered cloths like at a posh restaurant, and goldware gleamed beside china plates and crystal goblets and beautiful wooden chairs with thick brocade cushions sat arrayed just so, waiting for a small intimate dinner between companions, and the centrepiece of all of it was a large mirror framed in cabled gold as thick as Harry's arms that sported a kiss outlined in red and a scrawled message beneath it--  _No less than you deserve, my love. xSirius_

'Oh,' Hermione said, her hands clasped at her chin, her eyes shining. 'Oh, it's just like in A Little Princess. He's done up Remus's room just like Ram Dass and Mr Carrisford did Sara Crewe!'

'Even Draco would think this is swank,' Neville approved, smiling widely. 'I bet it's loads better than what any of the other teachers have!'

Ron had just found the message on the mirror. 'Wha-- love?' he repeated incredulously.

'Honestly, Ron, you hadn't realised?'

'They're blokes!' Ron protested, shying away from touching anything suddenly. 'I thought they were just, you know, friends! Best friends, and Marauders, like he said.'

'They're married,' Harry said. He picked a direction, and started checking the books rowed on the mantel. 'Black book. I think it was sort of smallish. Remus showed me a picture once of him and Sirius. They had matching bands.'

'Wedding rings?' Hermione joined him, going through a stack of magazines and papers.

'Bracelets, more like. And they started wearing them again this summer.'

'Well, but they're not  _really_ married,' Ron said. 'I mean, it's not, well, it's not like men and women getting married.'

'They had a vow. And they love each other and they live together. It sounds like marriage to me.' No black books. 'We need to look everywhere. If we can't find it, we have to assume he has it on him.'

'Yeah, but there's vows and then there's vows,' Ron persisted. He dug a foot at the edge of the rug. 'My mum and dad are married.'

'So were mine.' Harry got to his knees to check under the bed. 'There's a trunk down here. Cedric? Help me get it out?'

Together they wrestled it out. It was smaller than the usual student trunk, but it had a familiar latch. 'Hermione, your Alohamora's best,' Harry said, and she came over to unlock it. It was a disappointing find, however. More books. 'I think it's possible to read too much,' Harry muttered, shoving it back under the bed. He felt along the duvet and under the pillows-- he turned up a letter, also from Sirius, but put it back after catching a whiff of cologne on the paper. It was private and he didn't need to know what it said.

Bedside table. Harry hesitated. That was as private as it got. But that was why it was a good place to hide things. And it was for a good cause. Harry reached for the drawer pull, and tugged.

 _'Alohamora,'_ Hermione said, unasked, reaching over Harry's shoulder to give it a tap with her wand. 'Oh,' she said. 'Oh, my.'

Potions, in little bottles, racked all together so tightly they barely rattled. And Muggle prescription bottles full of tablets. Some of them had the same names, but none of them were Remus Lupin. Harry brushed his fingers over the cool plastic caps.

'False bottom,' Harry said. 'Old trick at Crowhill.' He dug his fingers down the side of the drawer, feeling carefully, and found a little divot in the wood, just large enough for his fingernail to catch. He pulled, and the pasteboard lining tilted up, jostling all the medicines. And there it was. The black book. Harry exhaled, sliding down to his knees with the book in his hands.

It was a curious thing, the small black diary. The edges of the pages curled as if someone had thumbed them knowingly for years, but the yellowed pages were blank and untouched. Harry traced the faded gilt name embossed on the cover: TM Riddle. It didn't look dangerous.

'But the pages are blank,' he said. 'I saw him write in it.'

Ron plucked it from his hands. 'Magical, then. Maybe it's one of those books that has a partner and you write messages in it and they go back and forth like that. You only see the writing when the partner book is sending or receiving.'

'We could test it,' Hermione suggested.

'Not a good idea,' Neville disagreed. 'If it is a partner book, who's got the other one? And if it's not, then who even knows what would happen if we wrote in it?'

Harry looked up at all them bending over him. 'I've seen this before,' he realised. The book. Lucius Malfoy had given this to Remus that day they were all in Diagon Alley. What had he said? That it might be of interest to Remus, in a scholarly way. A mystery for Remus to crack. 'We shouldn't write in it. It's probably Dark... it's almost certainly Dark, if it came from the Malfoys.'

'Finally!' Ron said. 'I've been telling you that for  _ages_.'

'What did that house elf tell you about it?' Cedric asked, though he was looking at the potions with the discerning eye of someone who'd had three more years' experience at Potions than the rest of them, and his face was still, holding in whatever it was he'd figured out. Harry watched him warily, but Cedric said nothing about it. 'He said the book was a danger to the school?'

'Well... not exactly. He said he couldn't tell me anything about it, I think, because Abraxas Malfoy told him not to.'

'That's Draco's grandfather,' Hermione told them with authority. 'I looked it up after you told us. Great Houses has the family lines through 1973. The Potters are in it, Harry, if you're interested.'

'The old man's still alive?' Cedric asked, seating himself on the carpet and putting out a hand for the book. Ron gave it over to his examination. 'My dad said once that Abraxas tried to get the law changed so it wasn't only Ancient and Noble families who could sit the Wizengamot, but the bill failed. Nowadays they can't even seat a full session but they vote everything on quorum. That's why the Ministry's got so powerful since the war, the Wizengamot doesn't have the requisite votes to review all the regulations that would've been laws otherwise.'

That was mostly over Harry's head-- he would have begun government and economics in History lessons at Crowhill this year, if he'd stayed in Muggle schooling, but Remus had said it would wait for summer as it was. In any event Muggle education wouldn't have covered Wizarding government. 'Is Abraxas Malfoy anyone important?' he asked.

'He ran for Minister of Magic twice, for the Conservatives. He lost out to Minister Bagnold and Minister Fudge. But Fudge has been in for almost ten years now, and I haven't seen the name in the newspapers any time I can think of.'

Hermione was gazing at Cedric with naked admiration. Finally, someone educated who read as much as she did. 'Oh, I must find a good reading list,' she muttered, pulling out her notebook and writing frantically. 'And spend more time with the newspaper archives in the Library. There's so much we don't cover in classes!'

'I can bring you some books for Latin Revision,' Cedric promised. 'But I only know anything because Dad talks about it all the time. Dinner conversation for fifteen years-- quizzes on who's who and who's in the know! He'll have me on a Ministry internship next year, you watch.' He sighed. 'So much for professional Quidditch.'

Harry only listened with half an ear. He was thinking instead of Remus, who never quizzed him at dinner but preferred to slip things in when Harry was only half aware of what he was hearing. He was thinking, in fact, of the first time Remus had taken him to the Hogwarts Express-- back in the days they'd been much carefuller about going about in public, before Sirius had legally adopted Harry, before they'd known even that Sirius was innocent. Remus had taken care not to frighten Harry, Harry could see that in hindsight, but he'd laid out warnings all the same. They'd had to be careful, he'd said, because Death Eaters could count the passage of time as well as anyone else, and they'd all be watching the calendars for Harry's eleventh birthday, and his entry to Hogwarts.

Draco's father was a Death Eater. A reluctant one-- Imperiused, Draco said-- but a Death Eater all the same. And Draco never talked about his grandfather at all, but Dobby had. Dobby was still acting on his orders.

'If this book is old,' Harry said abruptly, and the others quietened, looking to him. He fought to pull his scattered thoughts to order. 'If this book is old, it's from the war at least, and maybe older. That's what we need to find out. Who was out there, doing Dark and dangerous things, and why this book would've turned up now.' He took it from Cedric. 'Who this TM Riddle is. What the book does. What the danger at the school is. And... and why Remus didn't tell us about it. At least to tell us what to watch out for. I wouldn't expect him to explain everything, he never does that, he's said he's going to go on treating us like children-- but he'd've warned us, at least, if he was worried about it. So why wasn't he worried about it?'

'We should take it,' Hermione said.

Harry looked up. 'What?'

'We should take it. If there's this many unanswered questions, Harry, wouldn't you rather be certain it's safe? We should take it and hide it away until we know what it is and what it means. Somewhere safe, where only we can get to it.'

'Where?' asked Ron. 'Remus is a professor. He could come into our rooms and search. And once he knows it's missing he's bound to look for us first. My mum always checks the twins first whenever anything goes wrong, and as far as Remus is concerned we're Fred and George.'

They all sat silently, thinking about it. 'Someone above reproach,' Cedric said first, breaking their concentration. 'Someone who never bends the rules.'

Ron's eyes widened. 'I have the perfect place, then. Percy's dorm. Think about it-- Percy's my brother, I could go in to get the book whenever we want it, but no-one would ever suspect Perfect Prefect Percy of breaking the rules.'

'Oh, good show, Ron,' Neville agreed. 'And Percy's got almost as many books around as Hermione. He'd never notice another one if we tuck it away.'

'And if he did, he'd probably just think it was Oliver's, Oliver's a horrid slob,' Harry said. 'You might be right, Ron. It's a good idea.'

'If we're agreed, we should get away fast,' Hermione told them. 'I don't know how long Draco can keep Professor Lupin busy, but it will definitely look suspicious if we're all here without permission. Put everything back the way you found it, and let's do hurry.'

They cleaned quickly. Harry thought of brushing the rug to get rid of their footprints, Cedric straightened the bed and the bedside table, Neville swept away the dust and hay they'd brought up on their shoes from the stable, and Hermione slipped bits of browned apple to the thestrals' stalls below, to keep them quiet too. Harry tucked the book into his waistband and fluffed out his jumper over it, then changed his mind and switched it to the back where it was less likely to be noticed. Teachers tended to check the obvious hiding places, and he cursed himself not thinking of his robes at the weekend-- they were much more forgiving. But if they hurried it wouldn't matter at all.

'Let's go,' he said, and they descended the ladder and ran for the shelter of the castle, hopefully leaving no sign at all of their passage.

 

 

**

 

 

'I asked him to take me to a unicorn,' Draco admitted, cheeks flaming.

Harry fought a smile. 'Did you.'

'Don't you dare look smug, Potter. It was the only thing I could think of would keep us away long enough to suit our purposes. He had to have let the unicorn go back into the Forest by now, but I've listened to plenty of Gryffindor snivelling to know how it's done--'

'I'm sure.'

'--and I begged after it until he agreed we'd look for one where he'd called for it before. That was something,' Draco added grudgingly. 'If people knew how to do that there'd be no free unicorns. He called it just a knack for things, but it's more than that. He understands how they think. And he knows the Forest really well. He found paths I wouldn't have imagined could be there and he wasn't a bit afraid of it. And there were other things out there--'

Harry looked up from polishing his broom's handle. It had taken a good nicking during the Bludger incident at the pick-up game, but Madam Hooch had provided Harry with a care kit and instructions for filling it in and sanding it out, and it looked nearly good as new now. 'Other things?'

'I could hear things, sometimes. A rustle in the leaves. A call or cry of something out far away. He told me not to mind it any, that nothing would bother us if we didn't bother them, but...' Draco shivered. 'It's a different kind of magic out there, Harry, wild.'

'I'm less worried about the magic out there than the magic in the book.'

'I can't believe I didn't even get to see this rubbishy book. I might've been able to tell you something about it, you know, if it was my grandfather's.'

'I didn't think of that,' Harry confessed, cursing himself. 'We were in such a rush to get it hid. We can get it back, we've just got to send Ron up when Percy's not there to catch him at it.' Harry had advised the others to scatter as soon as they were done. Hermione had gone off to the Library-- the Death Day party did deserve a little real research, she said-- Cedric had gone back to Hufflepuff, Neville and Ron had gone off with Seamus and Dean to a meeting of the gobstones club. Harry had taken it on himself to find Draco in the Slytherin dorms. He'd been more successful finding someone at mid-morning to take him all the way in, so he hadn't made too much a fool of himself flailing about aimlessly in the dungeons. The Slytherin common room wasn't as homey as Gryffindor's nor as sunny and open as the Hufflepuff basement, but there was something appealing in the cool elegance of green settees and low ceilings lit with oil lamps, and Harry thought he could stare out the window at the Lake all day and never be bored of it. Twice already the giant squid had swum by, and merkin, though they didn't venture quite as close and could only be glimpsed, shadows in the wan beams of sunlight that strained to reach this deep. Though the presence of Harry Potter in their midst occasioned some whispering, Harry was pleasantly surprised to be only greeted and then ignored as if he were no more interesting than any other second year. The Gryffindor common room had become a no-man's land strewn with Colin Creevey-shaped mines, all set to holler his name whenever Harry dared cross it. Slytherin was positively peaceful in comparison.

Draco stroked the grain of his Nimbus 2001. It was in perfect condition, but he liked to have it out where people could admire it, especially in contrast to Harry's Nimbus 2000. So he only moved a polishing cloth vaguely over its surface, adding a little extra burnish to the golden engraving. 'I've been thinking, Harry. About my father.'

'Is that why you've been such a Gloomy Gus lately?'

'Don't be so Muggle.' Draco's neck had gone all stiff and he sat like he was at danger of getting his knuckles rapped for poor posture. He contrived not to meet Harry's eyes. 'About what Weasley said. That it mightn't just be danger at school, if Dobby wanted me gone from home too.'

'Your dad must've been really scared, what happened last year.'

Harry's attempt to be kind was not well received. Draco was stiffer than ever. 'My mother says the Aurors won't confront him directly, but they'll try to hound us out with a hundred excuses. Aurors came to the manor this summer. Twice. They said they'd had reports of Dark artefacts-- wouldn't say who'd dare accuse us of that, but they don't need to invent names. They want a reason to search our home, they'll do it.'

'Well...' Harry rubbed at a particularly stubborn spot on his broom. 'Are there Dark artefacts at your home?'

Draco blew out an impatient huff. 'Of course there are. Some of them are heirlooms, just like your guardian Sirius is finding at his house. Most of them are old and the magic's gone off and who even knows what they were meant to do, it's not as if my ancestors left instructions sitting about for all of them all neatly writ down. People used to enchant all kinds of silly things, like talking candlesticks and lamps that only light during the witching hour and shoes that make you dance until you die of exhaustion and cloaks that turn you into donkeys, whyever you'd want that. And Dark is just a matter of definition, and the regulations changes on that nearly every other day. I bet a lot of the things the Potters had were Dark, too, going by today's rules. And you can't get rid of things without looking like you've got something to hide, so all this grotty old stuff just sits around gathering dust and taking up space.'

Harry recalled very well what he'd heard Mr Malfoy saying in Borgin and Burke's, that day in Knockturn Alley. That people were trying to sell things off. That he was interested in names. That he had contacts on the Continent who'd take things that couldn't be got rid of in England. But Draco was being blithe and irritable in a way that suggested honesty-- he wasn't lying because it wasn't worth lying about it, just a fact of life. And it was true there were a lot of odd things in the Potter Manor that were dangerous and strange, rooms Remus and Sirius locked and warded, things they told Harry not to touch. Like that old wardrobe where he'd once encountered a Lamia who'd wanted Harry to free her, so she could eat him. If that wasn't Dark, Harry wasn't altogether sure of the definition himself.

'So what about your dad?' Harry asked, and Draco squared off his shoulders.

'I've been thinking,' Draco said, 'he knew Professor Lupin would be living at the school, so he wouldn't have given Lupin the book to look at if he thought Lupin would bring it here. So the book can't be dangerous-- at least on its own.'

Harry was not at all sure that was true. But he could very well understand why Draco would want it to be. 'Do you think your dad knows what it does? Why it's something Dobby thinks is dangerous?'

'He can't do. Didn't he ask Professor Lupin to figure it out?'

'Sideways, maybe. Why not just ask outright?'

Draco seemed to be wrestling with something. He took in a big breath, looked about them to be sure they were well ignored, and said softly, 'I've got to tell you something about Lupin, Harry.'

'What?' Harry made his guess almost immediately, however. 'You were snooping in your father's files again.'

'And good for you I did. Harry... Harry, Lupin wasn't hired by Dumbledore. I mean, he was hired by the governors, all the teachers are, but it wasn't Dumbledore who put him up for the post. It was the Chief Auror.'

'Oh, that, I know that already. Remus told me end of last term.' Harry eyed Draco warily. 'You haven't told anyone else, have you? It's a good secret, it could be worth something to someone.'

Draco's cheeks took on heat again, but he wasn't embarrassed this time, he was in a snit. 'I haven't, and don't you tempt me, Potter!'

'So your dad knows about Remus and Scrimgeour.' Harry frowned down at his broom. 'You think he gave Remus the book so that Remus would give it to Scrimgeour?'

'It's possible. It's at least possible, you have to admit that.'

'Why not just give it over himself and get credit for turning it in, if he thinks it's Dark? And why tell just me, and not the rest of the Knights?'

'You're close enough to a Slytherin to understand, that's why, to both questions.'

Harry didn't understand, and was about to say so, when suddenly he realised he did. 'Your dad is playing both sides,' he said, and Draco nodded once, sharply. 'But-- why?'

'Mother says it's because he's a coward.' Draco wrung his polishing cloth between two white-knuckled hands. 'Father sent me away to Sweden so I'd be well out of it, but Mother wrote me letters telling me everything. She says Father's afraid that  _he_ is still out there, and that he'll come back again, the way he did possessing Quirrell, and that he'll punish Father for failing. She says Father's gone soft and won't protect our interests and he won't protect us. That if  _he_ really is back...'

'We should look at the book as soon as Ron can get it back,' Harry decided, and Draco nodded solemn agreement.

But there were no chances to effect a second escapade into Percy's dormitory. Ron tried before dinner, but Percy was in there working on an essay, and wouldn't be stirred. A bit of plotting determined they could probably tempt the twins into something mischievous that would get Percy properly riled up and safely off premises, but for once the twins were not up to mischief, or at least not in the common room where it would have been most useful. And Percy seemed to have realised they were up to something themselves, for he personally walked them to dinner at the bell and made a point of keeping an eye on them. There could be no sneaking accomplished under his watchful gaze. Harry caught Draco's eyes across the Great Hall and shrugged helplessly. They would try again tomorrow.

Harry had much to think about, and it bled over into his dreams that night. He was flying on his Nimbus, chased by Dobby's Bludger, only it wasn't a Bludger, it was a Dementor, and the Dementor was howling something into the wind that Harry knew he needed to hear, only he couldn't risk slowing down enough to hear for fear of getting caught. He circled and circled the pitch, the Dementor always on his tail, and--

'Harry. Wake up, Harry.'

His eyes shot open. Remus sat on the edge of his bed, his hand warm on Harry's shoulders. Harry fumbled for his glasses, jamming them on. It was dark, the fire in the grate burnt down very low, and a glance at the window showed only deepest night.

'Harry,' Remus said softly. 'Something's gone wrong.'

Oh no. He'd discovered the book was missing. Harry tensed, casting about for a lie that wouldn't sound a lie.

But it wasn't the book. It was worse.

'Da's had a stroke,' Remus told him, and Harry saw the gleam of wet on Remus's face, then, felt the slight tremor in his touch. 'Sirius took him to Saint Mungo's.'

Stroke. 'I don't--' Harry's mind blanked. 'I don't-- know what that means.'

'It's a problem in the brain. It's bleeding in the brain.'

'Did he... did he fall?'

'No, love. He was just sleeping. It can happen that way.' Remus's voice went dry, and he wet his lips, eyes searching the dark. 'They're doing some tests at Saint Mungo's. To try and halt the damage.'

'But he'll be all right?'

Remus didn't answer. Couldn't. His fingers pressed into Harry's shoulder. 'Get dressed,' he whispered at last. 'I'll take you there. Sirius is there, we'll-- we'll see what the healers say.'

Harry felt all disconnected from his limbs. Seamus snoring away seemed alien, somehow, the contents of his trunk all mystery lumps unfamiliar to questing hands. He shrugged on his shirt and trousers and his new trainers and took his robe for warmth-- his eyes fell on the pin Lyall had put in his lapel, the dragon pin, and he stood staring at it in the dark until Remus touched his hair. Harry scraped a hand across his eyes and followed him out the door.

They took the floo from Dumbledore's office. The Headmaster was there, in a long nightshirt and smocked housecoat, silent but for small murmured words to Remus and a sad smile for Harry. Harry went through first, dribbling floo powder from his frozen fingers and mumbling Saint Mungo's Hospital as instructed. He only just remembered to step out when he reached the other end of his journey, and didn't step out far enough into the dimly lit lobby in which he found himself, so Remus bumped into him coming out a moment later. Remus took his hand, and Harry almost protested-- he wasn't a little boy, he didn't need to be led about like that-- but Remus squeezed him so tight, his palm a little damp and his face set and hollow, that Harry couldn't find the voice for it. He squeezed back.

Sirius came springing out of a slouch on a sofa near the front desk. He enveloped them in a hard embrace, his hand curling warm about Harry's neck. 'He's in the Spell Damage ward,' Sirius told them in a cracking voice, and he looked as if he'd aged a decade, both of them looked like that. 'They had a healer out here to tell me what it was and what they were going to do for him, it's been an hour at least, I don't know how long he laid there like that before I checked on him-- I should've checked on him, Moony, I'm so sorry I didn't check on him sooner--'

'Shh,' Remus said, and pulled him close, but only for a moment, stilted beneath the gaze of the witch manning the night desk. 'There wasn't anything you could've done differently. It's down to you, you got him here as quickly as you did.'

'We can go in, I've done the paperwork.' Sirius pulled them toward the desk. 'Excuse me, Miss. They're here. Lyall Lupin's son and-- I mean-- damn, I'd forgot-- Potter, Lyall Potter, and Harry, his grandson. Fuck-- Moony.'

The witch was quite scandalised by Sirius's language, but that was nothing to the dismay dragging Sirius's face into tragedy. Remus was braced for it. He gave them a convulsive little push, Harry and Sirius at once, toward the imposing double doors. 'Family only. I know.'

'You are his family,' Sirius snarled. 'You're his-- he's his bloody son,' he accused the witch, who jumped to be so addressed. 'It's this stupid game of names and politics--'

'Not legally,' Remus said. 'Not now. Never, actually, I don't have a legal right.'

'If you're a relation, you can sign in,' the witch began tentatively.

'Is there an issue here, sirs?' A black man in the white garb of a warden came at the commotion, hands crossed peacably behind his back, but a stern look that didn't welcome any fuss. 'Perhaps I can be of service.'

'His father's in the intensive ward, he needs a pass to see him,' Sirius said bullishly, jaw jutting stubbornly.

'Of course, sir. If you could provide identification and sign in, we'll just--'

'Sirius, please just go,' Remus tried.

'No, Moony. His name is Remus Lupin, all right, he's Lyall Potter's son, I can vouch for him. I'm Lord bloody Potter, it's got to be good for something!'

'Lord Potter, of course, I'm sure we can get your friend a pass if he'll just provide his wand for identification--'

Remus drew it from his belt. He held it out, stiffly, to the witch at the desk. Her eyes travelled up his arm, past his sleeve to his face, pale and angled away from her. She caught the warden's eyes. He looked, too, and his lined face fell into a cold foreboding stare.

'I'm afraid we can only allow relatives and authorised _persons,_ ' the warden said, inflecting it with odd force. 'You understand, Lord Potter.'

'I know, I knew,' Remus said. 'Go, Sirius, for fuck's sake. I can't-- I'll go mad if I don't know what's happening in there. Please just go see him.'

'There's no call for language like that-- Lupin, is it? If you don't mind, I'd appreciate you waiting calmly and in good order, or I shall have to ask you to leave.'

'Go,' Remus said again, and Sirius whirled away with his teeth grinding. He seized Harry by the arm and pulled him along. They stormed through the double doors.

'You're hurting me,' Harry dared, when they had gone the length of the corridor and Sirius showed no signs of slowing down. As soon as he said it, though, Sirius released him and swiped a hand through his hair, gasping out an apology that sounded on the edge of tears. Harry rubbed his sore arm without another word, sorry he'd said anything at all. He took Sirius's hand, clenched fist as it was.

A healer met them at the top of the stairs at the fourth storey, her lime green robe too much colourful against the crisp white edges of all the walls and night-blacked glass. She talked to Sirius, but Harry couldn't have repeated a word of it if he'd tried. Old duelling curse, he heard that, he thought, critical condition, know more by morning-- he was standing there holding Sirius's hand and then they were at a room, Room 406, and he didn't want to go in, he didn't want to see. He hung back, and no-one seemed to notice him stuck there at the door, Sirius had gone in and the healer too and there was a mediwizard already inside, they were all saying things, chatter that flew in one ear and out the other. Harry told himself not to be stupid, told himself to be brave, told himself to ignore the pounding of his heart and just look, damn it--

Lyall lay small on a bed beneath a glowing ball of blue light that cast deep furrows of shadow on his beaky face. He looked too small. He looked so thin. His hand was like a claw, limp on the white sheet draped over him like a shroud. His eyes were sunken deep into bruise-like hollows, and the spots on his skin were the only colour to him, as if he would vanish into the white in a moment. His chest rose and fell the smallest bit, and that was the only life at all in him. Harry dug the heel of his hand into the hot wet stinging in his eyes.

'Is he going to die?' he asked, only to realise no-one had heard him, the adults talking so intensely on the far side of the room, and so he had no answer.

 

 

**

 

 

It was well after dawn by the time they returned to Hogwarts. Dumbledore was waiting up on them, and McGonagall too, though both looked weary. Sirius said something vague about it all, and McGonagall gave Remus her condolences; Remus gave her a nod and an empty smile. 'Tea?' Dumbledore offered. 'With something a bit stronger for the nerves.'

'Thank you,' Remus agreed quietly. 'I should, should, ehm... I should speak to you about arrangements.'

'Of course, dear boy.'

'I'll return Harry to his dormitory,' McGonagall offered. 'He can sleep through breakfast, I'll send an elf with a plate later.'

Remus stopped him before he could go far. Mutely he put his arms about Harry. Harry pressed his face into Remus's shirt. Sirius gave him a tug at the earlobe, a twitch of the lips. 'Go on,' he said. 'We'll fetch you if anything changes, I promise.'

'Okay.' Reluctantly Harry followed his Head of House out of the Headmaster's office. They stood side by side on the moving stone stairs that wound down the tower, and McGonagall matched her pace to his as they walked through the castle. Though he'd only done it in reverse a few hours ago, Harry felt in a stupor that he'd never walked it before at all. He recognised nothing, and startled when they boarded a stair that swung free of its perch to another landing at a ninety degree angle. It was a shortcut to Gryffindor, one he'd never used before, but he knew he wouldn't remember the way.

In the dark trough between torches too far apart to chase away the darkness from their stone corridor, McGonagall finally broke the silence. 'Potter,' she said, then, 'Harry. I'm very sorry for you, going through this. Lyall was a student of mine, you know. Gryffindor, and what a rascal he was. If you want to talk at all, please do come to me.'

'Yes, ma'am,' Harry mumbled, and she accepted that with a little frown, but let it go. Harry trudged onward, one foot in front of the other, tired to the bone, wondering how on earth he could possibly sleep. But a thought occurred, and he turned his head up to her. 'Professor? It's Remus. They wouldn't let him see his dad.'

She winced. 'Damn the law, and I'm not sorry for saying it. Oh, Harry. What you must think of our world.'

'It's my fault,' Harry said, past the frog clogging up his throat. 'It's because of everything they did to adopt me. He's Lyall Potter now, like Sirius is a Potter now, so they're all related and Remus isn't--'

'Oh, child, it's not you.' She stopped walking, and Harry did as well, digging his hands deep into the pockets of his robe and clutching his mum's wand for scant comfort. 'I know enough of the story about the entail and the adoption to swear to you it's nothing to do with that. It's an old law and a wretchedly ill-conceived one, for all the talk of protecting the populace and such. Protecting who, I want to know? Fathers who need their sons, mothers who only want to visit their daughters? And in a hospital of all places. You'd think caring after the ill and ailing would come first, but it appears a healer's oath stops all too conveniently at this particular door. It's not as though Lupin cursed himself, is it? Not as if he sought it out!'

'The duelling curse?' Harry said, confused.

'A werewolf's bite is no duel, even if it's a grown wizard capable of defending himself, to say nothing of a little boy bitten in his own bed! But no, those hypocrites don't give two knuts for the circumstances, only the letter of the law.' McGonagall drew herself upright haughtily. 'We may not always get it right at Hogwarts, Potter, but in this I am proud to say our Headmaster sets himself above the self-righteous. It's the only compassionate and sensible thing to do, to welcome all to our school, and I am prouder still we've got your Professor Lupin on our staff. The rest of the world can go stuffed-- ohh, Potter-- stay back!'

Harry had been staring dazedly at her. Her arm blocking his path and shoving him backward sent him stumbling, and he fetched up against a statue of a satyr strumming a lute that jabbed him in the back, shocking him back to sentience. He drew his wand as McGonagall did, straining on tip-toe to see around her.

There was a red and gold lump laying on the ground. McGonagall went running for it as soon as she'd checked the corridors were clear, casting a Lumos that lit the hall with bright harsh light. Harry hurried after her, slowing only as he saw what had so startled her. Written on the wall in dripping red was a message.

_**Enemies of the Heir Beware!** _

'Is that... is that blood?' Harry asked, and turned back as McGonagall cast Enervate. Harry had heard that spell from Madam Pomfrey in the infirmary, it was for reviving people. The red and gold lump on the ground was a person. A boy. A very small boy, Harry saw, stepping near. A small blond boy who lay as he had fallen, his pyjamas askew and his Gryffindor scarf tangled about him, a camera raised to his eyes. It was Colin Creevey, frozen stiff as the stone statue.


	9. Those Most Pleasant Falsehoods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which It Is Better To Offer No Excuse Than A Bad One._

'A moment, Harry, if you would so kindly spare it for me,' Dumbledore said.

Harry scuffed his trainers along the rug. A nearly full mug of hot chocolate sloshed with each kick. There was a sticky stain drying on his knuckles that would taste of cream and peppermint, if he ever licked it off. He scrubbed his hand clean on his trousers.

Madam Pomfrey's office was in slight disarray, unusually so for a woman who prized orderliness in her domain. A cup of tea had been forgot there on the desk, beside a large medical tome that had been hastily consulted and just as hastily found wanting. Harry's presence in her office was the surest sign of anomaly; students rarely saw the inner sanctum, and it was only to keep Harry out of sight he'd been stashed away here. But now the Headmaster had joined him. Dumbledore did not sit behind her desk, though Madam Pomfrey was busy outside and wouldn't have minded. Instead, Dumbledore settled himself in the wooden chair beside Harry's, and removed his spectacles to rub the crooked bridge of his nose. He said, 'I am sorry about your friend, Harry.'

'He wasn't my friend,' Harry answered. 'Not really.'

'You will have an opportunity to correct that, if you so wish. Colin Creevey is not dead, only petrified.'

McGonagall had told Harry that, too. He still didn't quite know what it meant, only that it wasn't something spells could fix, even if it was something magic had done. 'He was probably out of bed because I was. He's always trying to take my picture.' Colin had still been clutching his camera. He was never without it.

'Professor McGonagall has tried to explain to Colin's parents what has happened, but I am afraid... I am afraid it is somewhat beyond the experience of two Muggles. I hoped I might impose... I know it has been a difficult night for you, Harry, but it would greatly reassure them, if one of Colin's friends were to speak to them.'

'But he wasn't my friend.' Harry squeezed the cup between his hands until his knuckles ached. 'I did everything I could to avoid him most of the time. He was silly and annoying and he followed me everywhere and--'

'And?' Dumbledore asked quietly.

He scrubbed his wrist under his eyes. He put the hot chocolate on the floor. 'I'll talk to his parents, sir.'

Mr and Mrs Creevey were definitely Muggles. They looked like-- like nice people, like the kind of parents who had come now and then to Crowhill. Mrs Creevey was blonde like her son, her hair twisted in a bun behind her head, her pleated trousers and pretty blouse terribly out of place in a castle where witches were more commonly seen in floor-length robes. Mr Creevey was a thin man with a large belly protruding from his denim jacket. They sat to either side of Colin's cot. Colin lay exactly as he'd been found, frozen with his hands raised, though the camera had been taken away. Mr Creevey's eyes were red, and his hand moved slowly, repetitively over Colin's hair, stroking it.

'Hi,' Harry said, or tried to say. He coughed to clear his throat. 'My-- my name is Harry. I'm Colin's... Colin and I met the first day back. He, uh, he's told me about you. You're a teacher, Mrs Creevey? My-- dad is also.'

Mrs Creevey smiled. It was tremulous. 'It's a pleasure to meet you, Harry. Colin is, was so excited to come to school here.'

'Me too. When I found out I was a wizard it was the best.' Harry drew a deep breath. 'It was the most wonderful thing ever.'

'You didn't know either?' Mr Creevey asked abruptly. 'You were one of our lot? Regular folk?'

Harry nodded. 'I'm adopted. My real parents were Wizarding. But I didn't know until I was eleven.'

'You're that... you're that boy. Harry Potter.' Mrs Creevey wiped her nose quickly with a kerchief, and opened her purse. She had a book inside, a book Harry recognised. Colin had tried more than once to get Harry to sign it. It had terribly embarrassed Harry, to know Lockhart and Rita Skeeter weren't the first to write books about Harry. Those at least were based in real life. Colin would be the one to unearth old adventure books about Harry, and it explained a great deal about why so many kids thought Harry had been off being trained up or fighting crime or traversing the space-time continuum with aliens or some other fantastical thing. _Harry Potter and the Dragons of Kahlee_ was, Colin had informed Harry eagerly, but one of some twenty or thirty similar books, but this one especially was his favourite. 'Colin was so excited to meet you,' Mrs Creevey said, her voice breaking. 'I told him not to get his hopes up, you couldn't possibly be real, but... so much else was.'

'Not most of that silliness. Other things... other things, yes.'

'They've told us he's been pet-- petri--'

'Petrified.' Harry drew a deep breath. 'We don't know how yet, or who did it. But he'll be all right. There's a cure, Madam Pomfrey's said. He'll be perfectly all right, as if he's only been asleep. He mightn't even remember it's happened.'

'We want to take him home,' Mr Creevey told him. Told Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall, who were all watching from across the infirmary and saying nothing to interrupt. 'I don't want him far away from us in this heathen heap of make-believe. And I don't want him coming back here, filling his head with fairy tale nonsense. When that cure's ready, they can bring it to us. And then we'll have nothing to do with this, this, magic.'

Harry didn't know what to say to that. He looked over his shoulder, but the professors weren't protesting, only looking away, upset in the lines of their faces. 'I understand,' Harry managed. 'Why you feel this way. I've had thoughts like that before, when bad things have happened here. About just leaving and pretending I've never got mixed up in all this. I've even thought that tonight. I wouldn't blame you. But.'

Mrs Creevey mopped her eyes again with her kerchief. 'But what?'

'But if you took magic away from Colin, he'd... he'd wither up. He would. Magic's a part of him. And his brother, probably, too. He's told me about Dennis. If Dennis turns out to be a wizard, you wouldn't let him come either, would you. But it's not just what they'd miss out on, being here with people just like them, people who understand them. There's a law about secrets, to keep Muggles-- regular folk from finding out about magic. They'd take your memories away to keep the secret. So they'd just go on thinking all their lives that they're different. They'd go on knowing all their life that they never fit in, they'll never fit in because something inside of them is wrong.' Harry hesitated. 'That's how I felt, anyway.'

Professor McGonagall laid her hand on Harry's shoulder. He hadn't heard her coming, and he jumped, a little. 'I should take Mr Potter to bed,' she murmured. 'He's been up all night, and I'd like him to have a rest before the Aurors come to begin their investigation.'

'Aurors are like police,' Harry told the Creeveys. 'They'll find out who's done this to Colin, I promise. I'll tell them everything I saw.'

'Come, Harry.' McGonagall steered him away, toward the door. Harry glanced back once, to see the Creeveys standing over their son once more, their hands tightly clasped over his still body.

'I hope you will tell the Aurors everything,' McGonagall said, for his ears only, as she led him away. 'But only the Aurors. What happened to Mr Creevey will be terribly upsetting to the students, and until we have had an investigation it would be irresponsible to panic anyone. You will take my advice in this?'

'Yes, Professor.'

'Thank you.' For a moment, her hand was warm, resting on the top of his head. 'That was well done in there, Harry. That was very well done.'

If it was well done, Harry wondered why he felt so miserable. He didn't speak, though, and his professor didn't press him to. She walked him all the way back to the Tower.

 

 

 

Harry slept the day through undisturbed. Wherever his friends had got to, they must've been warned off him, and he was alone in his dorm when he woke to the setting sun. Harry rolled a neck gone sore on him from sleeping mashed into his pillow at a wonky angle, and found the note from Remus propped up on his bedside table.

_No change from last night. Sirius is with Da. I've gone back to the house to get some of his things. I'll be back for classes. Try not to worry._

_R_

Remus. There was that still to think about. Harry balled up the note and stuffed it away into his trunk.

Sneaking out of the common room was easy when one had an invisibility cloak. Harry suffered a momentary pang when he spied Hermione, Ron, and Neville sat together by the hearth, textbooks open before them, talking animatedly. But it felt as though a gulf had opened between them, in just the space of a few hours. There was so much on Harry's side of that gulf now, and he didn't know how to get back to where they were.

Terry Boot was in the Library, that was no shock. He was there with a group of second year Ravenclaws, but unlike Harry's experience of Latin Revision there was no discussion, no shared exercises, no paired assignments; each Ravenclaw read silently, head bowed over a book or quill. Harry waited long enough to see he wouldn't be catching Terry's eyes and walked past without worrying about having to conversate. He wandered the stacks for a while, unsure exactly what he was looking for. No, all too sure, and that was the problem. If he found what he was looking for, it would be all too real. He dragged his fingers over the stiff leather spines of old books, and selected one. He carried it to an empty table, and sat. He checked the index in the back, dragging a finger through the alphabetical listing.

Werewolf.

'Harry? Didn't expect to see you here, the others said you weren't feeling well.'

It was Cedric. 'Hi,' Harry said, as Cedric drew out a chair and sat across from him. A girl was at his side, and joined them as well. Cho Chang, the Ravenclaw Seeker. 'Hi,' Harry said to her, slamming his book shut hurriedly as she looked at it with a Ravenclaw's curiosity.

'Reading ahead?' she asked with a smile. 'Seventh Year Defence, you must be really good.'

'I was just looking something up. For Hermione,' he added hastily, seeing Cedric raise a brow.

Cedric laughed. 'Sorry, Harry, that's an even worse lie. Hermione does her own research, and I'm pretty sure she's already got a newer version of that book checked out.'

Bother. Harry rubbed his face. 'I don't think I should say.'

'In front of me?' Cho asked. 'I can go.'

'No, wait.' Cedric had a hand on her arm, stopping her rising. 'Harry, that is... oh, better now than never. Harry, I think we should bring Cho here in on the know. To Latin Revision,' he said, weighted heavily with significance.

'Oh.' It was the first time anyone had asked that. Cedric had been the last arrival to the Knights, but he'd still been Harry's choice, as had all the others, on Remus's advice to think who he trusted most. Cho had always seemed perfectly nice the little bit Harry had known of her, but he didn't really know what to make of this request. 'Um, why?' he fumbled it. 'That is, er, how do you know she'd be-- interested? Only I reckon you're loads more advanced than our group,' he assured Cho. 'Cedric's only, you know, being nice to firsties. Second-sies.'

'I haven't told her anything,' Cedric said, 'but we can trust her. And, well, I'd like to be able to tell her.' His hand on her arm slid down. To curl her hand in his.

'Oh.' Harry worried his lower lip. 'It's not that I don't believe you. I just-- maybe we should put it up for a vote?'

'A vote?' Cedric's shoulders slumped. 'Sure. No, that's okay.'

'It's okay,' Cho echoed, rising successfully this time. 'Anyway, I've got to go, I've got practise. Say hi to Oliver for me, Harry? I'm looking forward to matches.'

There was a short silence between them in Cho's wake. Harry traced the edge of the textbook. 'Is she your girlfriend?' he asked, just as Cedric pulled in a big breath and said, 'I'm sorry about that.'

'No, don't be,' Harry told him. 'I was just surprised.'

'We can trust her,' Cedric said earnestly. 'I know we could.' A faint tinge of red coloured his cheeks. 'She's brilliant. And good on a broom, you know that, and most importantly she hears things we don't. Her mum's an Auror. An Auror who's not in the Order of the Phoenix,' Cedric said, low-voiced, checking to be sure no-one was listening in. 'And her brother's in the Department of Mysteries. If You-Know-Who is still out there-- we'll need friends like that.'

'You think she won't tell, though?'

'She'll take the oath, like we all did. Just-- think about it,' Cedric forestalled his reply. 'Don't a make a decision right now. She doesn't know anything yet, and she doesn't have to, til you decide. And whatever you decide is good by me. I promise.'

'Okay.' Harry forced a smile. 'I will think about it.'

'I know.' There was a short pause, both of them dithering. 'So what are you really doing here? Just looking for some time alone? I could go, if you like.'

'It's all right.' Harry rubbed his thumb down the corner of the pages. 'Actually, I... can I ask you something?'

'Sure. Anything.'

'Yesterday--' It had only been a day. He could barely believe it. 'Yesterday, in Remus's loft. You saw all his medicines.'

The smile fell off Cedric's face. 'Yeah,' he admitted, putting his elbows on the table and drooping over them a bit. 'You're going to ask if I know what they're for. And I'm going to be honest. I do.'

'I didn't,' Harry said. 'I thought he had-- I thought he had this Muggle disease. Aids. It's, I don't reckon I know how to explain it exactly, but I thought... I don't even know why anymore I thought that, but it was from before I knew about wizards and magic and I already had an answer, so I didn't think about the question again.'

'It's not a disease, not really. It's a Dark curse. You won't learn about it til next year.' Cedric took the book, and went through the index just like Harry had. He flipped the pages, and turned the book to face Harry. It was a moving photograph, like Colin Creevey was always taking, but this subject matter was far grimmer than any portrait Colin would do. A man in a barred and locked cage, screaming silently as his body bent and cracked and sprouted fur under his clothes, long bloody fangs leering out of his enlongated jaws in a soundless howl.

Harry's mouth had gone very dry. 'That's what happens to him?'

'With every full moon.'

'He gets so ill, about... about once a month.' Moon. Every full moon. 'Sirius knows,' Harry realised. 'And my grandfather. And the other teachers, they all know. That's why... that's why they've put him out in the stables, they don't want to be exposed to it. Is it that dangerous?'

'If you get bit, you always turn. If you're too young or too weak, sometimes it kills you. Some people think those're the lucky ones. Werewolves... if they live long enough, live with the curse long enough, they go mad from it. There's no cure. There's a potion, it's supposed to help, that's what Professor Lupin had in his drawer. It helps keep them human, so they don't terrorise people and try to spread the curse.'

'Sirius hates the potion.' Harry couldn't bear looking at that picture a moment longer. He closed the book and shoved it away. 'He says it makes Remus worse.'

'It's made of wolfsbane. It's a poison. I can't imagine it, well, I can't imagine it's easy.' Cedric paused. 'Professor Lupin's, he's, he's quite nice. And he cares about you. And he was one of your dad's best friends. Maybe he's different. You know he wouldn't have been, if he were the wrong sort, the sort who liked to hurt people.'

But. 'My dad was friends with Peter Pettigrew, too.'

'Yeah.' Cedric watched him, and opened his mouth, then shut it, evidently rethinking whatever he'd meant to say. Instead, he asked, 'What will you do now you know?'

'Harry, there you are.'

He knew that voice. Harry shoved the book at Cedric out of habit, forced a big smile on his face. 'Hiyas, Tonks, what're you doing here?'

'Hiyas, cutie.' She ruffled his hair, sprawling not quite on purpose into the chair beside him. Harry thought Tonks was quite wonderful, but he could not truthfully say she was well-coordinated, with a tendency to trip over her own feet, knock vases off tables with her elbows, and once, memorably, walking into a perfectly obvious door. The door had won that particular encounter.

But Tonks was bruise-free now, and she looked especially fetching in violet-streaked hair with matching eyes, lipstick, and nail varnish, sparkling with punk rings and studs in her eyebrows and lips and nose. She gave him a friendly wink, and reached across the table to shake Cedric's hand. 'Come to ask a few questions,' she said. 'You haven't been up to hijinks, your lot, have you?'

Harry and Cedric exchange a quick glance. 'No hijinks,' Harry said. 'Er, Cedric doesn't know what's happened.'

She scrunched her nose. 'Well, that'll please some as think you can't keep a secret. Boot it, Ced. He'll catch you up later.'

'Bye,' Harry said, watching Cedric gather up his rucksack and discreetly remove the book as if it had been his all along. There were plenty of secrets, just now, Harry thought morosely. He was getting quite full up with secrets. 'Who thinks I can't keep a secret?'

'You can't blame adults, love, they've only forgot what it is to be a kid. They think everyone under thirty is a security risk.' Tonks propped her chin on her fist, looking him over. 'You haven't told anyone about the little tot in the hospital wing, have you?'

'No.' Harry slouched low in his seat, wishing he had something to do with his hands. 'McGonagall told me not to. What are they going to tell people, though? His dorm mates will notice he's missing.'

'They'll say he's come over contagious with something, and has to be quarantined.' Her face was quite serious, for once. 'Petrification's not exactly common. There is a cure, but it's got really rare ingredients-- mandrake root, specially cultivated. Professor Sprout's going to get a batch growing straight away.'

'They don't have any at Saint Mungo's?'

'It's not the usual kind of treatment,' Tonks explained gently. 'They'd have to bring in apothecaries and Master Brewers and such. Costs money. His parents might be able to come up with it, but it would still take time. Dumbledore knows he can grow it here, so he offered it free of charge.'

'That's really good of him. It is.'

'It is,' Tonks agreed. She ruffled his hair again, sweetly. 'Must've been horrible, seeing that.'

He hunched one shoulder up about his ear, angling his head away from her touch. 'I didn't see how it happened. He was already like that when we found him.'

'Did you notice anything odd? Out of place?'

'Other than a scary message writ in blood on the wall?' He picked at the hem of his hoodie. 'He had his camera. I don't know what they've done with it.'

'We'll bring it in for evidence.' Tonks swiped her tongue along her lower lip, prodding the rings there. 'I'd like to take your memory, too, for evidence. We don't usually do it with children, but I know you know how memory spells work. We'll view it in a Pensieve and return it to you. We don't have to go to the Ministry, we can do it here.'

'I don't have to get permission from my guardian?'

Tonks grimaced. 'Usually, yeah. Under the circumstances, I'd like to err on the side of do first, ask later. You're not unfamiliar with that, either.'

Harry couldn't argue that. 'Do we need to go to Dumbledore's office?'

'No, this part we can do right here, if you like.' Tonks placed her wand and a phial on the table. 'It doesn't hurt. I just need you to think about the moment you found Colin.'

Harry closed his eyes. It wasn't hard to summon it up-- it was right there waiting, burning his eyelids. The dark corridor. McGonagall, tall at his side, his own helplessness and fear. And then she'd tried to push him back, tried to stop him seeing, but he'd seen all of it. Colin laying there on the ground, and there on the wall behind him, those words scrawled on the wall--

And then the image bled away, like dye rinsed away in a rush of water. There was nothing.

Harry looked up to see Tonks shaking something white and luminescent off the tip of her wand. It dripped into the phial and curdled in the bottom. Tonks cupped his head and pressed a kiss to his forehead. 'Good lad,' she said, wiping away a smudge of her lipstick with a thumb. 'I'll bring it back soon.'

'No,' Harry said, turning his head away so he wouldn't see her ashamed of him. 'I... I'd rather not.'

She didn't speak for a moment. Then she sighed softly. 'I'll keep it until you're ready for it, how's that then. Go get some rest, Harry. You look done in.'

'Tonks?' He wasn't sure what made him call her back. It had only been a day, and within that day so much had happened. He had to trust someone, and he trusted Tonks. 'I need to tell you something important,' he said. 'About a book.'

 

 

**

 

 

'Harry! Harry, Harry, wake up!'

Ron was shaking him fit to rattle his teeth. Harry fumbled for his glasses, jabbing himself in the eye as he got them on. 'What?' he asked groggily. 'What's happ--'

'It's Percy!'

'Who's-- what--'

Neville burst into their dorm, breathing heavily. 'Ron, quick, the Aurors are leaving!'

Harry scrambled out of bed, tripping in his haste to follow Ron. 'Aurors?' he demanded, runnning barefoot down the winding stairs. 'What's happening, Ron?'

They tumbled out into the common room and into a crowd. Half of Gryffindor House was stuffed in, some in pyjamas like Harry and some middling-dressed, damp-haired from the showers, on their way to breakfast. And there went the Aurors, winding their way through a crowd of frightened whispers and confusion. The real ruckus was Oliver Wood, chasing after them in his boxers and vest and shouting obscenities.

'Son, take a breath and calm down,' said a half-familiar voice, and Harry jumped up on a couch to see over the sea of heads. It was Kingsley Shacklebolt, Harry would know that dark-skinned bald pate anywhere. 'Just calm down, please, all of you.'

'Tonks!' Harry ducked elbows and bowled through taller classmates faster than Ron with his greater height, and he managed to get to her side. 'Tonks, what's going on?'

'Nothing's going on, Harry.' She was wearing her red Auror robes and the brown plait and plain face that Harry thought might be the real her, assuming there was a real face for a Metamorphmaga. She looked weary, as if she'd been up all night. 'We just had questions to ask.'

'This isn't what I meant to happen when I told you about the book,' Harry hissed. 'Percy hasn't done anything, we just put it in his--'

'We know what we're doing,' she cut him off. 'And we've done it, so there's nothing to protest here. Get ready for class, the lot of you,' she said, raising her voice, aiming this at Oliver in particular, who had been restrained by the twins and was being talked to quickly and quietly in both ears, mutinously growling at the Aurors. 'See ya laterz, Harry.'

Harry abandoned that as a dead end-- Tonks and Kingsley were climbing out of the portrait hole and not looking back at the chaos behind them. Ron caught his arm, and Harry turned back with him. They met Oliver on the stairs, the twins with him. 'What happened?' Harry demanded. 'What's happened to Percy?'

'Those bleedin' arseholes came in the middle of the night and dragged us all out of bed, that's what,' Oliver spat, throwing off Geroge's hold. 'They sent us all out into the stairs except for Perce and they kept 'im in there for hours, "askin' questions" they said, and they fine'ly let us in there again at dawn and he's weepin' and lookin' like they wrung him dry as a bone all damn night.'

_'Ronald Weasley!'_

Harry looked about automatically for Mrs Weasley, wondering how she'd got in. But it wasn't the formidable mother of the Weasley clan. It was the youngest Weasley, stranded at the foot of the stairs by the spell that forbade boys from going into girls' dorms and girls into boys'. Ginny Weasley wore a pink night dress and fluffy slippers and an absolutely murderous expression. When she saw Harry gaping down at her, she squeaked, momentarily wavering, but then she squared her shoulders, planted her hands on her hips, and hollered, 'Fred, George, all of you! Get down here and tell me at once what's going on!'

'Yikers,' muttered Fred. 'She's way too convincing.'

'Go tell her what's happening,' Harry said. 'I'll-- can I please talk to Percy, Wood?'

'No offence meant, Potter, but I don't see what you've got to do with it.'

'More than you know. Oliver. Please.'

Oliver brought himself up short, staring at Harry. After a beat, he swallowed down his objections, wiping sweat from his upper lip. 'Go on, then. Maybe he'll listen to you; he's sure as shit not listnin' to me.'

'I'll try.' Harry slipped past Oliver for the sixth year dorm. He scratched the door to announced himself, and pulled the latch to let himself in.

The dorm was messier than usual. The difference was that all of the beds had been tossed assunder, including Percy's, which had been cleanest and tidiest both out of all his year-mates. The mattress was falling off the bed, the sheets stripped and bundled aside, the pillows all opened with their feathers spilling out. Percy's desk had been all turned out, his carefully maintained rolls of parchment overturned and even his quills scattered. Scabbers the rat's cage had survived the wreckage, and Scabbers sat contentedly gnawing an oat biscuit. His owner sat in the windowsill, huddled in a nubbly old housecoat. His hands twisted over themselves in his lap.

'If you're here for your book,' Percy said, never once looking at him, 'they didn't get it.'

Harry leant back against the door behind him, wishing it had a lock. 'You know about the book?'

'They asked a lot of questions about it. Ron's not as subtle as he thinks. I'd an idea he'd stashed something here. Fred and George do it all the time.' Percy lifted his wand and cast Tempus, sucking in a breath when he saw the time. 'I've got to get ready for class.'

'Percy. Are you-- all right?'

'I'm fine. Go, please.'

Harry hesitated. 'The... the book?'

Percy climbed atop his bed. He stretched an arm up over the canopy. 'Adults never look up top,' he said, and tossed the book at Harry. Harry fumbled it as it smacked him in the chest and tumbled into his hands.  Percy thumped on his way down, and went on sinking, to his knees, into a lump of misery in the shadow of his bed. 'There will be a file on me now,' he said helplessly, and his reddened eyes turned down, but it didn't halt the spill of wet that dripped freely onto his hands. 'There'll be a file on me now and when I apply for a post it'll be there, that they've questioned me.'

'You're tops in everything. And it was only questions.'

'You're not wizard-raised, you don't understand what it's like. It only takes the littlest thing... It's why Father's not head of a department. That stupid automobile in the garage. The twins stole it for a joyride once.' Percy angrily wiped his face. 'Take it and go.'

Harry tried to wet his lips. His mouth was arid as a desert. 'There's a boy in hospital. Colin Creevey.'

'I know. They think I did it.'

'Did you?'

Percy staggered to his feet. He crossed the room in swift strides, and then Harry felt an explosion across his face-- Percy's slap cracking his head to the side.

'Get out,' Percy said.

Harry went.

 

 

**

 

 

Harry went through classes in a fog. He couldn't have said what he was doing moment to moment, but the one time his distraction might've caused a problem, Hermione hissed the answer at him from the table behind and Flitwick seemed to accept it as the usual teenage doldrums. After class he gave Harry a sympathetic squeeze on the shoulder and said he could understand why Harry might be disturbed by recent events, but applying himself to his schoolwork might help distract him from his troubles.

The announcement was given out at dinner. Dumbledore stood at his podium and informed the students that Colin Creevey had come down with a virulent strain of dragon pox, not having been vaccinated due to his Muggleborn heritage. He was being quarantined in the hospital wing, and Professor Snape was in charge of distributing the vaccine to all underage students who had not already had it. 'How fortunate,' Dumbledore added cheerily, 'that our second years have just recently brewed enough supply for the entire school.'

Harry skipped dinner. He wasn't feeling very hungry. Percy skipped, too. They met for one brief moment on the stairs, Harry going down to the common room, Percy leaving it. Percy pretended not to see Harry at all.

On Tuesday, Harry faked a flu. Every boy at Crowhill did it once or twice. Harry took the hottest shower he could stand and hurried back to bed, donning as many jumpers as he could get on, three sets of socks, and covering himself to the neck with as many blankets as he could til he was sweating from overheating. To finish off his performance, he made sure the other boys were busy getting dressed, pulled near a waste bin, and pretended to retch while splashing some water from a glass in.

'Ewww,' Seamus complained immediately, abandoning his bed half-dressed and running for the door. 'Potter's sicking up!' he hollered down the stairs.

'Harry, you all right?' Neville asked, venturing near-- but wisely not too near. Harry flopped back with a theatrical groan, hauled his blankets up, and lay there shivering in a ball. 'Shall I fetch Madam Pomfrey?' Neville worried.

Ron peered at him from the other side. 'He's sweaty,' he reported. 'Is it one of your headaches, Harry?'

Bugger. That would have been a better idea. Everyone was used enough to him having headaches last year he could have got away with it. Too late now, though, he'd committed. 'Don't feel well,' Harry grumbled into his pillow.

'Ginger beer and crackers,' Ron advised, and dove out of range as Harry lurched over the side of his bed to grab for the basin again.

'We'll get the nurse,' Dean called from a safe distance, and led the retreat.

Even if the boys hurried, Harry probably had an hour before Madam Pomfrey arrived. Not even the only mediwitch on campus could be ready for every emergency, and the flu was not an emergency. Harry kicked off his blankets to cool off a bit, and wormed a hand beneath his pillow to curl about his mother's wand. It gave a welcoming tingle, but even that seemed more subdued than usual. He touched the black book, instead, and wondered if it was only his imagination it, too, felt warm.

'Harry?'

That was not Madam Pomfrey. Harry yanked up the blankets, burrowing deep as the door creaked open. Remus came to his bed and sat on the edge. He tipped the basin, and put a cool hand on Harry's forehead.

'You're warm,' he said, and trailed off as Harry flinched away. 'You, um, I heard the boys saying you weren't feeling well.'

'You were at breakfast?'

'In the halls.' Remus sat in silence a moment. Then he peeled back the blankets. 'Do you want to tell me why you're pretending to be ill? Is this about Da?'

'How is he?' Harry deflected.

'He's... it's not much better.'

'Have they let you see him?'

The silence was pained, this time. He could hear Remus swallow.

'Does it make you angry?'

'It is the way it is.'

'It would make me angry. I'd be mad with anger.'

'It wouldn't change anything.'

'That's even more reason to be mad, isn't it.'

'What does this have to do with missing class, Harry?'

Harry made a fist in the sheet, wondering if this were the cleverest way to go about it, wondering if this were-- but this was the only way he knew, and, in the end, he couldn't be something else. He rolled to face Remus, and said, 'What's the black book do?'

Remus reared away from him, blinking in startlement that swiftly settled into resignation. 'You took it,' he sighed. 'I ought to have guessed. Well, I suppose I'm relieved.'

'Relieved?' Harry repeated. He sat up, suddenly steaming under the collar for more than just his layers of jumpers. 'Relieved? Percy got questioned by the Aurors, Colin's in hospital, they have to be related--'

'The book is a diary,' Remus overrode him. 'The diary of a boy called Tom Riddle. And it is possibly dangerous, but only if one is in communication with it.'

'I saw you write in it!'

'I'm an adult and a trained--' Remus cut off a word there. 'I am not a second year boy taking events into his own hands. You need to trust me, Harry.'

'Trust you to do what?'

'To handle a tip-off from Lucius Malfoy and give the Chief Auror enough information to keep this school and you safe.'

'What-- Scrimgeour knows?'

Remus nodded in the face of Harry's shock. 'I told him immediately. He preferred not to involve the Department of Mysteries, and for me to maintain my contact with Malfoy. It didn't take long to crack the diary; I used a similar spell to-- well, it's sort of like video games or computer programming. This Riddle, or whoever's behind the Riddle persona, wrote a kind of code that creates responses to input-- in this case, writing on the pages. It introduces itself, it presents itself as a character, Tom, and it responds conversationally. I used a similar spell to enchant a map, once.'

'Why would you enchant a map to write back to you? Who writes to a map?'

'No, that was a verbal response key, it's-- not important. Harry, I need the book back.'

Reluctantly Harry dug under his pillow for it. But he didn't hand it over just yet. 'Percy got in trouble for having the book. If Scrimgeour does know, why is Percy in trouble?'

'Likely he's not. They just would've wanted to know where the book was. Did Percy even have it?'

'We hid it in his room. After we took it from you.' Harry let it go, and Remus sat back with it, brushing hair out of his face. Remus licked his lips. 'You can tell Scrimgeour not to make a file about Percy.'

Remus could have lectured him on consequences. Ideally, Remus would have agreed immediately to make it all go away, and Harry's conscience would have been clear, and everything would have been fine. Harry would have been even more pleased for Remus to laugh and say there was no such thing as files on schoolboys. But Remus only sat looking down at the diary in his hands.

'If it's just a talking diary, why is everyone so worried about it?' Harry asked dully.

'I don't know yet. It's my job to figure out. Harry.' Remus put a hand on his knee. 'Listen to me. No more tricks, no more robberies, no more intervening. Trust me.'

'That's the problem,' Harry said. 'How can I trust a werewolf?' He threw back the covers and slid off the bed away from Remus. 'I'm feeling a little better, I'll go to class,' he said, and went to the loo. He waited there until he was sure Remus had gone.

 

 

**

 

 

'Why is Remus avoiding you?' Hermione asked him.

Harry had been rather busy avoiding Remus's eye, and so could not say for certain Remus had been avoiding him in turn. 'Is he?' he asked carelessly, finishing his sentence and turning the parchment over to Draco for his review.

'He is,' Draco seconded. He read Harry's work, and shoved the parchment back. 'Terrible. Start again.'

'It's the right answer!'

'There's right and there's well-written. Snape cares about both. Start again.'

'Is your grandfather doing any better?' Hermione asked next.

'No,' Harry said.

'Is that why you've been having a strop all week?' Ron wondered. Unlike Harry, he was allowed to write his Potions essay unsupervised by his lab partners. His parchment was full of crossings-outs and blots from his quill and the occasional arrow linking points between paragraphs where he'd thought of something too late to include it with the original idea. Tracey Davis did the final copy for his team, having much nicer penmanship and an eye for detail, so the other two gave her their drafts without worry. Harry, on the other hand, was expected to perfect his draft before he could hand it in to Pansy who'd re-do it all anyway. She'd informed him Wednesday if he didn't give it to her written properly in quill and ink she wouldn't include it at all, no matter how Draco railed at her. Even Squibs could hold a quill, she'd told him icily. Between her and Draco Harry was spending three times the usual effort on Potions, and it was fraying his nerves.

The elves had supplied a range of nutritious snacks for their afternoon study in the Great Hall, and over the last hour about half the school had been in or out as classes finished for the day and clubs began to meet. Percy had been through, trailed by whispers-- word of his being questioned by Aurors had spread-- but Percy had marched stiffly about his business and was gone without even a nod for his brothers seated at Gryffindor. If he'd noticed Harry and the others seated at Slytherin with their lab partners, he hadn't acknowledged it.

Harry bent his head over his parchment again. 'Cedric's got a girlfriend,' he said.

That won him the attention of several girls seated nearby, all of whom abandoned their chairs and rushed to gather near. Lavender Brown shoved Ron out of her way and would have done the same to Draco, except he refused to be budged. 'Cedric Diggory? Who is it?' she demanded, seconded by some dozen voices.

Harry had never had gossip to share before-- he was more likely to be the subject of it. He could see why Rita Skeeter liked it, rather. 'Cho Chang,' he told them.

'Chang!' several of the girls exclaimed, some envious, some appalled, all of them in virulent disagreement with Cedric's choice. 'She's so plain!' said Pansy, and several nodded in agreement.

'I dunno, I think she's quite pretty,' Harry said, and received all their attention re-focused on him.

'Oh _do_ you now,' Hermione asked, putting aside her homework to eye him keenly, like a detective solving a puzzle. The point of Draco's quill snapped off from digging into his parchment too hard, and he ground his teeth audibly as he dug in his rucksack for another.

'Prettier than Parvati?' Lavender clarified. 'Prettier than me? Prettier than Alicia Spinnet?'

Harry blinked at this. 'I hadn't thought about it.'

'But if you were to think about it,' Millie pressed him, when had Millie come over, she'd been clear on the other side of the Hall!

'Just-- pretty,' Harry stuttered, starting to realise he'd got himself into some kind of trouble.

'Well who's the prettiest girl you like?' asked Susan Bones.

'Tonks,' Harry said without thinking.

'Who's Tonks?'

'Does she go here? What year is she?'

'Is she a Muggle, from wherever you were before, Harry?'

'Tonks?' said Tracey Davis, who'd squished in to share Lavender's chair and now looked at him wide-eyed. 'You mean Nymphadora Tonks? The daughter of Andromeda Black and...' She swallowed whatever she'd been going to say, giving Draco an apologetic glance. Draco stiffly applied himself to his work, but his jaw was still clenched.

'Yeah, I think she's Sirius's cousin or something,' Harry recalled. 'They're sort of friends now he's out of Azkaban.'

'Your family is just full of the strangest things,' Millie informed him. 'Anyway you can't like your own cousin.'

'She's not my cousin, she's Sirius's cousin.'

'But Lord Potter adopted you, which makes his blood your blood,' explained Katie Bell, who'd arrived from somewhere and joined in. 'Legally, I mean, not actually, but if you wanted to marry her you'd have to get dispensation first.'

'I don't want to marry her,' Harry protested, his cheeks heating in a flash.

'Ooooooh, I think he does,' Pansy teased, and giggles erupted from the group of girls.

'Merlin's beard, you lot are ravenous,' Ron marvelled.

'He wouldn't need dispensation for a second cousin twice removed,' Tracey said, counting on her fingers.

'First cousin twice removed.'

'No, it's second, isn't it? Andromeda Tonks is the middle daughter and Lord Potter's first cousin, which makes Nymphadora his second cousin--'

'You've got bats for brains, you don't even know how to count relations!'

'She's half-blood, like Harry, but their children would be Pureblood, and twice over, through Lord Potter.'

'Right, but Andromeda was disinherited, remember, because she married a Muggle--' Lavender cut herself short, blushing slightly. 'Forgive me, Malfoy,' she said, rather formally, and Harry turned his head to see Draco also had two spots of red in his cheeks.

'Pureblood politics,' said a sage whisper in Harry's ear, causing him to jump. Lockhart had sneaked in somehow during all the discussion and stood at Harry's back, beaming pearly white teeth down at him. 'Best to get acquainted early, if you take my advice.'

'Harry doesn't really go in for all that nonsense,' Hermione defended him, a bit stiffly, as she didn't like to disagree with Lockhart-- but nor did she support all the politicking about blood and houses and names and all that.

Unfortunately, calling it nonsense when they were surrounded by people who generally took it all quite seriously did Hermione no favours. She was the recipient of some hostile looks, just now.

Harry braved an answer he thought might walk the line a bit. 'It is nonsense, talking about getting married when I'm only twelve,' he said, scrunching up his nose exaggeratedly and pretending to shudder. A few around him relaxed, and more took Lockhart's booming 'HA-HA, HARRY!' as permission to let Hermione's insult slide.

'You'll grow up one of these days, my lad,' Lockhart told him, clapping him on the shoulder-- both shoulders, and leaving his hands there squeezing and sort of awkwardly massaging Harry-- winking around at all the girls and alighting blushes like brush fire everywhere he touched his gaze. 'I envy you, my boy, surrounded by such a bevy of beauties, a bouquet of beautiful roses from which you will choose your mate! Such fair maids, each unique, golden-haired, raven-haired, ivory skin and dusky as the night, and eyes like sparkling jewels, each of you!'

'He knows he's talking about kids, right?' Ron muttered at Harry, who nodded his agreement. Worse, it wasn't even the weirdest Lockhart could get.

'Now I can't promise I won't have a prior engagement, but I will be happy to stand as your best man if you're flexible about the date,' Lockhart said, loudly enough to be heard by anyone with the remotest interest in Harry's future wedding plans. He ruffled Harry's hair thoroughly. 'What are best friends for, after all!'

'You're _so_ lucky,' Tracey said, entirely serious, and that about did it for Harry.

'Gotta go,' he said, 'uh-- prior engagement,' and made his escape without even taking his books and his homework. He slithered out of his chair and made for the doors at a run.

His mood took him on a walk-about, rather than leading him to any one particular refuge. He'd had a certain restless wanderlust all week, since Colin and his not-quite-fight with Remus. He'd begun relying more and more on his invisibility cloak as well, and he only waited til he'd got round a corner to whip it out of his pocket and wrap himself securely in it. He dodged through the more heavily travelled corridors and took a leap for a staircase that was swinging away toward the first floor, and hurried down the steps to jump off just a moment before it went swinging away again. The Trophy Room ought to be empty this time of day, he could waste an hour there. It put him in mind a bit of last Christmas, when he'd had the castle nearly to himself for roaming, and on a whim he decided tonight he'd go looking for the Door that had so fascinated him last year. He knew the Mirror of Erised would no longer be there, so he could keep his promise to Dumbledore about not seeking it out, if it was even still at Hogwarts. Considering how many adults asked Harry to trust them all the time, few of them seemed to actually trust Harry's better judgement, he thought mutinously. He slipped through the open door into the Trophy Room, trailing his fingers over the cool glass cases of Hogwarts' heroes long graduated, lost in unhappy thoughts.

_Hungry_

Well, yes, he was a bit peckish. He'd had an apple from the fruit bowl but half of it remained uneaten at his seat. Ron might have finished it off by now.

_So long, so hungry_

He'd only picked at lunch, for that matter. He'd had next to no appetite all week. He should make things up with Remus if only to ensure he didn't perish of starvation.

_Let me eat him please?_

The thought of eating someone was-- not his. Harry came to an abrupt stop. Those really weren't his thoughts. In fact, he wasn't thinking them at all-- he was hearing them.

 _I only wanted a taste,_ the voice said sulkily.

Harry pressed his ear to the wall. If he strained, he could hear something odd: something dry and rasping, like dried leaves being raked up in the fall, or sandpaper on wood, or--

Or scales on stones. Had his snake got loose? Feeling a bit ridiculous, Harry stood back looking at the wall, and tried to call out in Parseltongue. 'Hello? Hello, it's Harry, I'm... not speaking Parseltongue,' he guessed. He didn't know how to do it when he wasn't directly interacting with a snake. Hold up. Harry breathed on a glass cabinet to fog it over, and drew a squiggle in the mist, and a forked tongue that was the same thickness as the snake's body, but, well, he wasn't an artist, and he probably didn't have a lot of time, the snake could have slithered on halfway to the dungeons by now. He concentrated on the picture of a snake, and tried again. 'Hello, it's me, Harry. Are you there? How did you get out?'

The sound of the snake moving inside the walls stilled. _Who speaks?_

'It's me. Harry. The boy from the duel.'

_You duelled my master?_

It didn't sound like his snake. She had a mellow sort of voice, and, for that matter, she was very well fed at Hogwarts, now that the students weren't afraid of her. He doubted she would leave the habitat Hagrid had built for her in the Charms classroom, where she had plenty of warm rocks to sleep on and students sneaking her sweets all the time. This snake sounded-- hollow, sort of, lonely, old.

Harry pressed his forehead to the stones, wishing he could see the snake for real. 'I don't reckon I did, I've only ever been in one duel,' he said, 'and that was with my friend Ron. Who's your master?'

_My master is of the old blood and speaks true. You speak true. You are not my master? I have longed to hear him again._

Harry hadn't known snakes could have masters like house elves. 'You must be a magical snake,' he guessed.

The snake hissed evilly. _I am no lowly dirt-crawler! I am Hunter-Killer-Striker!_

'Er, sorry.' Harry was suddenly glad there was a wall between him and the snake. 'I may not be your master, but, um, you shouldn't eat anything-- anyone-- here. It's a school, not a jungle.'

_So hungry..._

'I could bring you something to eat?' he said, hoping that would serve. 'Would you like crickets, or mice?'

_I am too large for such small meat._

That didn't bode well. 'Chicken, maybe? The kitchen always has lots of chicken. Where should I bring it?'

The snake didn't answer right away. There was a long pause, in fact, and Harry put his ear to the wall to listen for it, straining to hear any noise at all. He thought he could hear a faint cry, but then there was a long stretch of nothing.

'Hello?' he tried. 'Hunter?'

 _So hungry,_ the snake whined piteously, but then its scales scraped over the stones and it was moving away. Retreating. Harry followed the sound as far as he could, around cabinets and shelves and displays til he met the end of the Trophy Room and could go no farther, but the snake never answered his hails.

Probably he ought to tell someone, Harry realised, crouching there with both palms pressed flat to the wall. Having a snake, quite probably a very large snake, wriggling around in the ductwork would give someone a nasty startle, like when Mr Filch had uncovered an infestation of chizpurfles in his supply closet last year. Well, he had a little time still before supper. Maybe Flitwick would be best, that way Harry could see for himself that his snake was still in her habitat and not out frolicking in the path of something that might consider her a tasty entree.

Harry went back the way he'd come, towards the light at the far end of the Trophy Room. Voices chattered beyond it-- human voices, this time, and that reminded Harry to shed his invisibility cloak now rather than get stuck popping out of nowhere in front of people. He eased toward the door, still hoping to go unnoticed, if through non-magical means, and stepped on something that crunched.

'Eurgh.' Spiders. Harry scraped his trainer of goo, and dodged a few more creepy-crawlies headed toward him. He could do without those things! Too bad the snake wasn't out hoovering up little insects, there was enough for a veritable feast out here, dozens, even a hundred-- Harry turned the corner and stopped dead.

 _Enemies of the Heir Beware!_ read the words painted garishly in dripping blood. _The Chamber Has Been Opened!_

Lying there in a pool of sticky red was a huddled form. Oh, no. Harry ran forwards, sliding unexpectedly on a slick of blood coating the stones, and fell to his knees by the body. He rolled it over, wincing to realise it was stiff as a board. Harry pressed shaking fingers to Argus Filch's neck. No matter how he tried, he couldn't feel anything.

'He was just like this,' a trembling voice said. 'He was just-- he was just like this when I came out here.'

Percy. Harry looked up to find Percy pale as a ghost, staring with glazed eyes.

'I think he's dead,' Harry said.

'He was just laying there like that. I didn't-- I didn't do it, you know I didn't do it,' Percy told him weakly.

'Your... your hands are bloody.'

Percy looked down at them with a jerky fold of his head. Then he shook it back and forth, back and forth in slow-growing denial. 'I didn't,' he said again, barely any voice at all to it. 'You believe me, don't you? I didn't.'

The bell rang for dinner. With a sinking gut, Harry realised what that meant. Footsteps, a lot of them. People would be headed this way any moment.

'Run,' he said, but Percy didn't hear him, just kept shaking his head over his blood-stained palms. 'Percy, you need to get out of here!'

'No, I-- I didn't, I swear--'

'I believe you, Percy, I know, you need to go!'

But it was too late. People were coming round the corner, headed for the stairs, a whole group of chattering students, and the minute they came into view one of the girls began screaming, and then they were all shrieking and running and calling for help, and Percy just stood there, too late to save himself.


	10. In Or Out?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which Reflection Yields Little Reassurance._

**_SQUIB DIES IN BRUTAL ATTACK: HOGWARTS ONCE AGAIN SITE OF MURDER_ **

**_Student Removed For Questioning; Headmaster Silent_ **

**_By Rita Skeeter_ **

_It is a sad day to report that Hogwarts, Britain's premiere school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, finds herself besieged by violence within her sacred halls once more._

_Aurors were called to the scene of a baffling death yesterday. Argus Filch, longtime custodian of the school, was found slain in the very home which had received his devoted care since 1973. Many readers of this newsprint will recall Filch as an omnipresent personality of considerable colour from their own days at Hogwarts. In the course of his career Filch presided over punishments for generations of recalcitrant children-- a gentle soul who preferred nonviolent chores such as scrubbing by hand, instilling respect for the ancient grounds, unlike his predecessor Apollyon Pringle, who regularly corrected even the most minor of mischiefs by hanging students from the ankles in the dungeons. Filch leaves behind no relatives, having long since cut ties with any family who might acknowledge kinship with a magic-less squib. Albus Dumbledore, whose tenure as Headmaster has overseen a surge in attendance by a new generation of students in the wake of the devastating dragon pox epidemic and the war that followed, personally sponsored Filch, providing room and board from his own pocket. Few, however, even knew of this arrangement between the powerful Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and a tragically lonely man._

_Yet Argus Filch's patron has yet to issue a statement in the aftermath of this poor squib's murder-- and Aurors confirmed it was indeed a murder, with Filch's corpse discovered by no less than Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived could not pass on his great luck to Filch, whose death combines a number of mysterious factors: though reports describe a great quantity of blood, it does not appear to have come at all from Filch himself, who died unmarked but petrified._

_'This is not the work of an Unforgivable,' a source within the Auror Department told this reporter. 'The Killing Curse doesn't leave a sign on the body, it's true, but Filch was solid as a statue. But most spells would dissipate once the victim was dead. Total mystery.'_

_More mysterious still: the blood may have been there before Filch died in it, for it was used to write a gruesome message upon the wall. Though the Auror Corps requested the_ Prophet _refrain from printing those words, they were seen by dozens of students at the lunch hour before Aurors could close off the crime scene._

_'It was a warning,' one student, Griselda*, a darling girl of fourteen years and impeccable heritage, shared with this reporter. 'Only I don't know what it could mean-- what Chamber?'_

_'Something about a Chamber,' confirmed Zenon*, a sixth-year of excellent repute and well-known family. 'And a warning to beware the heir. Heir of who, they didn't say.'_

_Whose heir, indeed? The heirs of many an Ancient and Noble House populate the school, and, though one hardly dares think it, so do the heirs of many Houses with reputations left in tatters after the war which devastated our world but a decade gone. Could the scion of some Dark witch or wizard be behind these heinous crimes?_

_Yes, crimes-- not only the murder of Argus Filch, unclaimed squib, but an attack terrifyingly similar in nature which at first escaped public attention. This reporter has uncovered an earlier attempt on the life of a Muggleborn student, Colin Creevey, a first year, also petrified at a bloody scene and also discovered by Harry Potter, also found with a message scrawled in blood across the wall-- a warning to beware this undisclosed heir._

_'They gave it out that Colin was just ill,' mourned FitzClarence*, a prefect responsible for the well-being of young children like dear Creevey, who, being Muggleborn and ignorant of the Wizarding World, could not be expected to navigate its hazards alone. 'He was so excited by everything, always in a dash to see more.'_

_'He had a thousand questions about everything,' agreed Esmerelda*, a Gryffindor whose family, unlike Creevey's Muggle lineage, had joined that House for generations. 'I think he truly believed wizardkind breathed different air.'_

_Young Colin was certainly taken with Harry Potter; several students confirmed Creevey was seen in constant lockstep with his new hero, who, readers may recall, is himself a half blood raised outside good wizarding society. Perhaps, one might speculate, that is the key that links these crimes together: all involved individuals at the fringes of our world, the most vulnerable to violence from wizards infinitely superior in skill and breeding alike._

_'A great tragedy,' Gilderoy Lockhart, celebrated Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts, told this reporter privately. 'And a wake-up call to arms for all of us! A good job that I, with some small contribution of funds from Lord Potter, have just revived Hogwarts' Duelling Club. It is imperative we teach our children how to defend themselves! I can't be everywhere, after all-- all the sadder for it, for I could have saved poor Colin and Argus, you know, had I been there.'_

_The least amongst us have the determined protection of warlocks like Lockhart, but what of the protection of their Headmaster? Where is Albus Dumbledore in this, and why has he chosen to protect the reputation of his leadership rather than the lives of those students in his care?_

_'We'll be getting to the bottom of this,' swore Rufus Scrimgeour, Chief Auror, in his official statement to the press. 'In the meanwhile, those in fear of their safety should take reasonable precautions. Do not travel the halls alone, nor venture beyond the most populated areas.'_

_As for theories that these crimes might be politically motivated, asked this reporter? Are half bloods, Muggleborns, even squibs again subject to that reign of terror which once sought vengeance on those without the shield of purest birth?_

_'It is not enough to be merely tolerant of the presence of those different from us,' Scrimgeour said, hand on his heart as he gazed with grim determination at a future he will do anything to prevent. 'We must fight for acceptance, for integration, for equality. I pledge to take all action necessary to ensure every child at Hogwarts knows they are welcome, wanted, and safe.'_

_Will Dumbledore issue any statement, offer any such comfort to the frightened families of vulnerable students? Or will he only carry on as usual, unperturbed by the ugly truths which stalk his halls? If the lessons of the war have not turned his heart toward the ills of the world, how can any child be safe at his school?_

_And, most important of all: when will Dumbledore admit what many already suspect-- that the danger comes from inside Hogwarts, perhaps within the student body itself?_

_See Page Nine for further history on incidents and fatalities at Hogwarts._

_*Real names were withheld to protect the innocent._

 

'You're not reading that rubbish, Harry?' Hermione snatched the paper from his hands.

'I was trying to.' Harry leant after her to get it back. His own picture blinked and smiled awkwardly from the front page headline, beside a much more dignified snap of Scrimgeour in his formal Auror robes. There was a tiny thumbnail print of Argus Filch, decades younger than he'd been when he'd died, in a ratty cravat and sporting thick dark sideburns under a greasy pompadour. Colin got no picture at all. Harry managed to tear off the corner of the front page, and slumped back on the sofa to read the article about the so-far unnamed student who'd been removed from the school for questioning. Percy was described as the Pureblood son of a Ministry employee fallen on hard times. It might not be hard to figure out who Percy was, specially since so many students had seen him there and word was bound to get out.

'Ron,' Neville warned them, and Harry grabbed the paper to hurl it into the fire.

Ron was red-eyed, his freckles standing out in sharp relief against pale cheeks. George was with him, looking little better, and Harry hastily gave up his spot so they could sit. The brothers hunched together, George wrapping his arms about a limp old pillow.

'Hot pumpkin juice?' Neville asked, bringing them steaming cups.

'Not thirsty, Nev.'

'Oh, Ron.' Hermione sat up from her cushion on the floor to lay a hand on his knee. 'Percy will be all right.'

'No he won't,' George said flatly. 'I know Perce is a swot and a pompous ass and all that, but he's only shy about talking to people about normal things. This will make it a thousand times worse.'

'Mum and Dad are going to keep him out of school for the rest of term,' Ron mumbled, eyeing Hermione's hand. 'It's too late for an exchange year or an internship so he'll just do his classes from home.'

'He really wanted to be Head Boy next year.' George dropped his chin miserably onto the pillow.

'Where's Fred?' Harry wondered, settling on the rug beside Hermione.

'Helping Bill pack Percy's things.' George scrunched up his face. 'That Auror is in there with them. Tonks.'

Harry stirred uneasily. He couldn't blame the Weasleys being angry with Tonks-- they didn't know her as he did, only as someone responsible for Percy's downfall. Harry wasn't altogether pleased with her himself, though he knew, rationally, it wasn't anything to do with Tonks. If anything, Harry himself was to blame. He'd allowed Ron to hide the black book in Percy's room, that had started all this.

Harry thrust himself to his feet and headed for the stairs. He passed Oliver sitting alone on the landing outside the sixth year dorm, and hesitated momentarily; but Oliver's head stayed bent over the bit of parchment in his lap, a few lines of print in smeared ink. Harry slid past him to the door, and let himself through.

Percy's desk had been cleared and his bedding packed away, the bare mattress sporting nothing but a crate and a trunk of folded clothes. Fred picked over a pile of books with a sullen look, not noticing Harry's quiet entrance. Neither Tonks nor Bill noticed, either. They stood together at the window, framed by the setting sun. It was a romantic portrait, a kiss in the dying orange light. Harry's mouth was curiously dry, watching them. They spoke near-silent words to each other, and Tonks cupped her hand to Bill's cheek, her expression full of compassion for him. Bill wiped a knuckle over his eye, smearing a wet gleam.

He was the one who spotted Harry standing there, and came up with a smile of welcome. 'Afraid you missed him, Harry. Mum and Dad've taken him home.'

'Tell him I'm really sorry,' Harry said, clasping damp hands behind his back. 'About everything. I don't think he did it.'

'Everyone else does,' Fred spat bitterly. He tossed a book carelessly into a box. 'That Rita Skeeter tried to get interviews with all of us. She wants to know how shocked and horrified we are to have a murderer for a brother.'

'She's horrible,' Harry said with a burst of hot angry feeling. Then, not sure it was going to be the sort of offer he ought to make, but feeling he had to say something, anything, 'One of my friends has an uncle who's a barrister, you could-- we could-- if there's a way to make her stop, I can ask for you.'

'Because we can't pay for our own solicitor?' Fred demanded, heat flashing up into his face.

'Freddie,' Bill interrupted. 'He wasn't making any kind of remark. Thank you, Harry. I'll pass it on to our parents.'

'I didn't mean to im-imply anything,' Harry stuttered, flushing himself. 'I only meant-- I only meant I could-- I would help if it would be-- helpful.'

'It may be,' Bill said, shooting a glance at Tonks, who caught the blush going round the room and looked away, cheeks pinkening. 'He says he doesn't remember anything, but it's... it might be problematic.'

'Can't you just take his memory?' Harry asked. 'Like you did with mine, Tonks?'

'He doesn't want to give it,' Tonks murmured, grabbing for a cloak hanging from a peg and folding it for the trunk. 'And his parents won't consent yet.'

'And you shouldn't have consented either,' Bill told Harry, earning himself a stiff-necked non-glare from Tonks, her lips pressed tightly together. 'That's not protocol, for Aurors to take memories unless there's an evidentiary need for it.'

Tonks yanked the strings of the duffel tight and tied them off. 'It was protocol  _for that_ ,' she said with jaw-grinding significance.

Order of the Phoenix, that meant. That was interesting. 'I can give this memory too if it helps Percy.'

Bill sank onto the bed. 'I'm not sure if it does help, to be honest. You didn't see what happened to Filch, only that Percy was already there when you found him.'

'But maybe there's a clue, something I didn't notice that you'd see better in a Pensieve. Please, I... I really want to help him.'

'You're a good friend.'

Dumbledore had said that too. It made Harry squirm with guilt. He hadn't been a good friend to Colin, and he hadn't been a good friend to Percy. He felt keenly responsible now, though. Dobby had warned them, and Harry hadn't listened.

'Tonks, don't,' Bill said, as Tonks brought her wand to Harry's side. 'I mean it.'

'He's volunteering,' she pointed out.

'And what are the ramifications? How's it going to look to the Wizengamot if Harry Potter nobly volunteers his memory and Percy keeps refusing? It'll look like Percy's trying to hide something.'

'I care about your brother too,' Tonks said, in the thinning tone of a woman reaching the edge of her temper. 'But that doesn't absolve me of having to solve this.'

'You've been over the crime scenes, you've got the bodies, what more do you think Harry's witness is going to do for you? You can't just go round taking his memories because dumb--' Bill pulled himself up short, clicking his jaws shut. 'Don't cite protocol to me, is all I'm saying. It's not protocol for schoolchildren.'

Dumb. Dumbledore, Harry would bet his life that was what Bill had been about to say. Taking memories because Dumbledore what?

Bill stood, and with a swish of his wand shrunk all of Percy's packed things and tucked them into the pockets of his waistcoat. 'Finish that up, Fred, I'll take it home for him. Gonna say a few words to Ginny, then I'm off,' he said, and that was the end of that. Bill gave Harry's shoulder a squeeze as he passed by. Tonks sighed, softly.

'Thanks anyway,' she mumbled, and followed Bill out.

Fred slammed the empty cupboard shut. 'I want in,' he said.

Harry savaged his lower lip with his teeth. 'In what?'

'I know you and your friends have some kind of secret club. You're in the know and I want in, too.'

'It's just a group of us for Latin Revision,' Harry stalled, taken aback. 'You can come if you want.'

'Come off it, Potter. You know what's happened to Percy, don't you? You know what's happened to the little firstie, too.'

'I don't. I wish I did. I'd fix it.'

Fred's shoulders slumped. 'S'pose you would. I would, too.' His jaw firmed, and he stood determinedly. 'I'll ask Ron. He'll understand.'

'It's not that I don't understand, it's that-- look, I don't know what you think we get up to--'

'I don't know why you think it's so secret. The lot of you all disappearing together last spring and facing off against trolls and Sirius Black and Professor Quirrell? And you're always meeting together doing who knows what. It's obvious. And I could help! George and me, we've got--' Fred licked his lips, then heaved a breath and liberated a much-folded parchment from his pocket. He shook it out to show to Harry. 'We've got this map,' he said, 'this map that shows the whole school--'

'It's blank,' Harry pointed out dubiously.

'It's magical, that's all. But it's got every secret passage and hidden door in the whole school, we knicked it from Filch's office years ago.' Fred's voice dried up at the mention of Filch. 'Can't believe the old codger's gone. Always thought he was a bit of a twat. Seems kind of pathetic now, don't it. All those years of tricks and larks trying to get around him. He were just doing his job, weren't he. You wanna know the funny bit? Filch actually liked Percy.'

'I'm really sorry,' Harry said, small voiced.

'Yeah.' Fred stuffed the map back into his robe. 'Bill forgot Scabbers,' he said, and took the rat cage down from the shelf. 'Stupid fat rat. None of the rest of us are good with pets but Charlie. That's how Percy ended out with Erroll and Scabbers and Tony.'

'Tony?'

'The cow.' Fred scowled down at Scabbers, poking a finger through the bars at the rat washing its whiskers with small paws. 'At least Tony will be pleased Percy's back home.'

'I can take care of Scabbers, if you like.' It was a thoughtless offer, just an eagerness to be of any use at all, but Fred nodded, and Harry found himself with an armful of cage and a box of pellets. 'Um, I--'

'Whatever, Potter. Don't talk to me again til you're ready to tell me what's really going on.'

Fred didn't give him a chance at an answer. He left. Harry left, too, and hovered a moment over Oliver Wood, still sat on the landing outside, but couldn't think of anything to say in the face of Oliver's obvious depression. He hugged the wall sliding past, and hunched his shoulders against weight of the evil glare he imagined Oliver was giving him. But when he dared a look back just before his descent carried him round the curve of the stairwell, he found Oliver exactly as Harry had left him, slumped against the wall, staring at the note in his hands.

 

 

 

** 

 

 

Given the general mood in Gryffindor and the mood of the particular Gryffindors involved, the first Quidditch practise of the year was decidedly grim.

It expressed itself in different ways, summing up to something very near disaster. The new members of their team, Lee Jordan, Cormac McLaggen, and Ginny Weasley, had none of them played before. Usually Oliver would've been on them from the start, specially as Jordan was taking over Mo Milai's spot as Seeker and would need to be up to snuff in time for the first match, but Oliver made only a few passing attempts to wrangle them with half-hearted instructions, and their hesitancy plunged into incompetence rapidly. Harry narrowly avoided a mid-air crash with McLaggen, who had taken to showing off instead of paying attention to the plays. Jordan got nowhere near the Snitch and gave up in frustration. Ginny was doing a good enough job for a second string back-up, but was quite distracted by George bossing her about. Fred was another matter entirely. His black mood ensured he had a large ring of personal space in the air, but he seemed determined to close it. He was positively vicious in his Beating, firing the Bludger off with great whacks at any available target. He didn't even spare his sister, although he made a grudging apology when she bitingly told him off. Harry wasn't that brave; he meekly and mutely dodged and tried his best to keep out of Fred's way. He had yet to make a decision about inviting the twins or Cedric's girlfriend into the Knights, and Fred's ferocious scowl told him not to wait too long.

Harry lingered in the shower after practise, letting the hot spray pound away at sore muscles. He was at it long enough his teammates all went their way, and when he at last emerged from his stall, the lockerroom was quite empty. Except for Hermione, who sat on a bench swinging her legs. Harry yelped and dove back into his stall.

'Harry?'

'I haven't got a towel!'

'Oh, for-- I won't look.'

'Turn your back, too!'

'I said I wouldn't look!' Footsteps tracked her progress away from his equipment on the bench, and her voice echoed differently when she spoke again. 'I'm facing the wall,' she called, 'and my hands are over my eyes.'

Harry checked carefully. Hermione was nothing but a girlish blur of brown and black against the cream tile of the wall-- his glasses were on the bench alongside his dirty clothes-- but he would have to trust it. He darted out, wet and slipping on the tile, and grabbed for the towel he'd left folded there. He dried himself hastily, yanked on his clothes as well he could over his damp skin, and jammed his specs onto his face. 'Um,' he coughed. 'I'm, uh, ready now.'

'You're being very silly, I think,' Hermione complained, peeking first and then trotting back to the bench. 'You obviously go naked in front of your teammates.'

'They're boys.' Harry pushed his dripping hair out of his eyes. 'Why're you here anyway?'

'Everyone's so... so sad,' she said, dragging a fingertip along a crack in the wood seat. 'I thought maybe you might like to take tea with Hagrid, like we did last year? Only he's the cheeriest person I could think of, and I could do with a little cheer just now.'

'That's a brilliant idea,' Harry agreed, digging a finger into his ear after a drip of water that didn't want to come out. 'Now? It's nearly dinner bell.'

'He doesn't eat with the professors.'

'If we miss dinner and eat with Hagrid it'll be burnt roast and rock cakes,' Harry warned her.

'Oh he's not that bad.'

'You know he is.' Harry gathered up his gear and stuffed it into his bag. 'But it still sounds better than another meal pretending none of us can see or speak or think. Let's go.'

'Oh, thank you.' Hermione wrapped her hands about his free arm as he slung his bag over one shoulder, and fell into step with him as they left the lockeroom on the Pitch-side, where it would be easier to make their way toward Hagrid's hut. Though the days were getting longer, it was still dusk as they walked the hillside. The cool air of early autumn felt good on Harry's skin and drying hair, though Hermione shivered now and then and tugged the sleeves of her jumper low.

'How are you handling everything?' she asked him.

'I'm fine,' Harry said.

'Pffft,' Hermione retorted. Harry raised a brow at her. 'You could be Batman instead of just trained up with him and you still wouldn't be fine.'

Reluctantly Harry grinned at that. 'I didn't think you knew who Batman is.'

'Raised by Muggles,' she said archly, and Harry found he could still laugh. He'd used to say that in response to everything new he encountered in the Wizarding World.

'How are you?' Harry asked instead, realising suddenly he'd never really asked her before. So much had happened since they'd first met he could hardly believe it had been only a little more than a year since he'd first learnt about such a thing as magic. 'I meant, well, not just what's happened now. Everything, I suppose.'

'Oh, my.' Hermione took his hand, and Harry squeezed it gently, watching her sideways as she gazed off into the mountains. 'Sometimes it's all very frightening,' she admitted, but her smile at him was braver than ever, and Harry knew he would never have to worry about her giving in to her fear.

So he laughed again. It was only appropriate. 'You might be the most Gryffindorish person I know,' he said, and quite enjoyed her blush.

'Would it be terrible to tell you a secret?' she wondered, blushing harder. 'Only it's so embarrassing, especially now I know you better. The Hat didn't want to put me in Gryffindor, at least not right off, you know. I, er, might have told it I'd just die if I couldn't be in Gryffindor.'

'You talked to the Sorting Hat, too?' This surprised Harry, who had been rather under the impression that he alone had even known the Hat could do more than Sort you and sing a funny song at the Feast. He'd had a full conversation with the Hat, which had known his parents and been eager to meet him after encountering Harry's name on the minds of many students since the fateful events of Halloween 1981, when Harry's parents had died and Harry himself had become known the Wizarding World over as the Boy Who Lived.

'It wanted to put me in Ravenclaw. And maybe I would have been better suited to it, but I would have withered up in there!' Hermione cried passionately. 'It's not enough for me to just be clever and have good marks. That's important, of course, but it isn't everything. I wanted to be useful, and have friends, and adventures, and-- I-- well, to be completely truthful, I wanted to be in the same House as you.'

'Me?'

'It's terrible, isn't it? I'm as bad as Colin Creevey.'

The thought of Colin was a pulse of regret that Harry tried to bury. 'Not any worse than why I asked the Hat to put me in Gryffindor. I wanted to be in the same House as my parents.'

'Maybe that's what the Sorting is really for,' Hermione mused. 'It's a test of what you really value. If what you really care about is learning as much as you can, you're a Ravenclaw. If what you really care about is making others happy, you're a Hufflepuff. Slytherins care the most about--'

'Family,' Harry said.

'Family,' Hermione repeated thoughtfully. 'The family name, definitely. Their Ancient and Noble status. Their blood.'

'That's not totally fair. There's Purebloods in every House.'

'True. It's all so funny, isn't it? How seriously everyone takes it. It's all so... old-fashioned, I suppose. Practically mediaeval. Did you notice that, in Rita Skeeter's article about Mr Filch? She kept going out of her way to mention blood status.'

Now that Hermione mentioned it, Harry had thought it was an odd theme, but no odder than all the other mad things wizards did. Or the  _Prophet_ , for that matter, as the paper regularly churned out articles ranging from vile to vulgar. 

'Harry, look.'

They were nearly to Hagrid's hut, with a view over the vast sprawl of the Forbidden Forest at the school's boundary. Hermione was pointing past Hagrid's hut, toward the treeline. Harry spotted it immediately-- the cold glow of a Lumos spell, lighting the tip of a wand.

Remus's wand. Remus stood there, in the shelter of a grand old oak, and he was not alone. He wore his Muggle clothes, a flannel shirt and denims and thick-soled canvas hiking boots, but that only made it all the odder that he was passing a wizard-style money pouch to a hunch-shouldered man opposite him. The others gathered round all looked Muggle, too, a woman with a young child on her hip, another man with grey hair and a yellowed beard. Remus had a pouch for each of them, and larger sacks, too, from which the woman pulled a loaf of the thick soft black bread the Hogwarts elves made for stew days, and another had a bottle of sloshing white milk, potatoes, a big round of cabbage, a thick ham.

'What on earth?' Hermione wondered. 'Are they poor, do you think? People who don't have a food pantry or something?'

'Look at their eyes,' Harry said.

All of them, even the child, had golden eyes. Just like Remus. And they all glowed in the light of Remus's wand.

'Oh,' Hermione breathed. 'But then they must be--'

'Werewolves,' Harry said. Hermione hardly blinked at that. Of course. Harry would be the last to know about his own guardian. Hermione had probably guessed the very moment they first met. 'Let's go before they notice us,' he told her, and she nodded her agreement.

They ran for Hagrid's, sprinting through the pumpkin patch and ducking behind the waterfalls of string beans for the door. Harry knocked, and took a prudent step back when he heard the deep woof announcing Fang the bloodhound was on the premises. To his surprise, however, Fang came bounding out from around the side of the hut, rather than from inside it. Hermione ducked behind Harry, who took the brunt of Fang's weight and braced himself just in time to stop from bowling over. He gave Fang a good scratch and pet as resounding footsteps inside the hut announced Hagrid coming to open the door.

'Watch 'im now, watch 'im,' Hagrid said, grabbing for Fang's collar and using a leg as big around as either of the children to block Fang slithering into the hut. ''Arry, 'Ermione, what a lovely surprise!'

'Good evening, Hagrid,' Hermione greeted him. 'We were hoping you'd be in. Would you mind a bit of company for tea?'

'Mind?' Hagrid boomed. 'Best thing as happened to me all week! In, in, both of you. Not you, Fang, til you learn to behave!' It was a trick of climbing over out-stretched feet through the door with Fang whinging pathetically, but Hagrid shut him out all the same, shaking his head. 'Can't have the poor lad inside with the cat,' he explained.

'The cat?'

'Mrs Norris,' Hagrid said, pointing out the cat that sat in his sink, hissing evilly at the door and the big dog on the other side of it. 'Argus always asked me to look after her when he was busy, you know, an' now...' Tears welled up in Hagrid's eyes, dripping into his beard. For a big man with a frighteningly fearsome look to him, he was as soft a touch as they came. 'Well, I seen it as a duty an' a kindness,' Hagrid snuffled thickly.

'Ohhh the poor kitty,' Hermione crooned, launching firmly into look-at-the-pretty-unicorn mode. She abandoned Hagrid and Harry immediately, intent on making friends with the evil old cat. Harry, who had done his rounds with the ill-tempered Filch and his even nastier cat, gave her up for dead and followed Hagrid to the big overstuffed chairs before the hearth instead. He accepted a soup-bowl sized cup of tea from Hagrid, who poured a second for himself with a large addition of Firewhiskey.

'I'm sorry about Mr Filch,' Harry began, feeling it best to start there, with Hagrid still looking a bit weepy.

'That's decent of you, Harry, damn decent.' Hagrid sighed into his tea. 'Most of us on the staff've known each other decades, you know. Like family, we are. I'll own Argus wasn't the friendliest, but he never missed a day of work, not a single day of work, 'ceptin' the week he was down with dragon pox, an' even then he kept his feet til Madam Paxelles tied him to a hospital bed.'

'That's an excellent recommendation,' Harry agreed, a bit at a loss for a eulogy of his own to contribute. 'He... he was very thorough. I expect he must have walked the whole castle every single night, trying to catch students up to no good.'

'That he did, that he did.' Hagrid perked up as he peered over Harry's shoulder. 'Why, I never! Hermione, how'd you manage that?'

Hermione joined them with both arms full of raucously purring cat. 'She misses her human, that's all,' Hermione said, nuzzling Mrs Norris's frizzy fur and receiving, astonishingly, a happy nuzzle in return. Harry made room for Hermione to join him in the chair, at least until Mrs Norris hissed at him. He quickly left them at it and sat on the rug instead.

'Quite a gift you've got there,' Harry congratulated Hermione with real interest. 'You're already tops in Care of Magical Creatures, you know, an' if you keep that up Professor Lupin's sure to ace you on exams!'

'Most kneazles aren't nearly as tame as Mrs Norris, though, I can't claim any credit,' Hermione said modestly.

'What's a kneazles?' Harry asked.

'Kneazle, and it's in our COMC textbook, Harry, chapter four, haven't you read it yet?'

'We're only on chapter two,' Harry protested.

'Well spotted, Hermione,' Hagrid said, 'although Mrs Norris here is only half-kneazle, at best.'

'Oh, good, animals have blood politics too,' Harry muttered into his tea.

'It's sad though that Fang and Mrs Norris don't get on,' Hermione said, in her problem-solving tone, but she blinked innocent eyes at Hagrid as she pretended to think it over. 'And you're so busy, keeping the grounds and helping Professor Lupin with his classes, it'd be awfully difficult to spend the time you'd need winning her over. I know,' she said, 'what if someone else took Mrs Norris?'

'I'd be pleased as punch, tell you the truth, but who'd take her?' Hagrid spluttered in his tea as the lightbulb went off. 'Say there, Hermione, maybe you'd be willing? Look at the two of you, meant to be!'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'I thought you said your parents wouldn't let you have a pet?'

'I'm only looking after her for poor Mr Filch, though, and Hagrid.'

'That'll carry water when your dad has to take allergy shots all summer long.' Hermione stuck out her tongue at him. Harry grinned.

Hagrid clapped his hands together gladly. 'Perfect!' he declared. 'This calls fer a treat. Season's first pumpkin pie, and I've had a pig on the spit all day all roasted up for us. We'll have ourselves a feast!'

'Does sound perfect, Hagrid, thank you.' Harry clasped his knees to his chest as Hagrid bustled off to start dinner. 'Hermione, would you mind... I think I need some advice.'

'Of course.' Hermione slipped off the chair to settle beside him, Mrs Norris slumping boneless and ecstatic in Hermione's arms, tilting her head to Hermione's enthusiastic caresses.

'Only I don't think I can decide this alone. Or shouldn't, maybe, even if the Knights are, sort of, well-- mine.' Harry worried at his fingernails, digging at a sore spot on his thumb. 'Cedric's asked to bring his girlfriend Cho into the Knights. And Fred wants in. I assume George too.'

'Oh.' Hermione thought that over. 'Would you mind if I asked why you didn't agree?'

'I didn't not agree, I just haven't decided yet. It's hard to put into words.' Harry let his head fall back to the chair behind him. 'You're not going to like it, I think.'

'How about I promise not to say anything either way, and you can tell me without worrying how I'll react.'

'Thank you.' Harry meant it. Sometimes Hermione knew exactly the right thing to say. 'All right, then... here goes. I like the Knights the way we are. Not too many of us. I like that-- I don't like having to talk about-- things, and-- and if I don't have to tell anyone else I'm just as glad, you see. I know that Vol-- him-- he's out there, still, and I know what Dobby's said about danger in the school and something bad is obviously happening, I'm not pretending otherwise, but.' He ran out of words, and air. He picked at his thumb.

'Harry.' Hermione curled her fingers around his, stopping him. 'I completely understand why you'd feel that way.'

'But it's not the right way to feel, is it.'

'I promised I wouldn't say anything.'

'I know. You don't have to.' Harry took a deep breath. 'All right. The responsible thing to do is think about what we gain if we do bring someone new in. And then it's just being careful about who, and why.'

Hermione nodded solemnly. 'I think so, too. So. The twins, what would we gain?'

'They know their way all over the school, and they're not in trouble nearly as much as they ought to be, which means they're good at getting away. And Fred says they've got some sort of magical map of the school, that could be dead useful.'

'And they are good at magic,' Hermione said, a little grudgingly; Harry knew it was because they didn't have to work at being gifted. It frustrated Ron, as well. 'And creative. What about Cho Chang?'

'Dunno with her, really, excepting the same things we get with Cedric. An older student who's got more experience and knowledge. And she's a Ravenclaw, Terry Boot told me they've got their own library,' he said, knowing that would light Hermione's interest. She held herself back admirably. 'Cedric trusts her,' Harry said. 'If I trust him, oughtn't I trust who he trusts?'

'By that logic, the twins should be in because Ron trusts them. But--'

'But?'

She bit her lip. 'I was going to say, but they all trusted Percy.'

'I don't think the problem is trusting Percy. I think the problem is Percy not being able to trust himself.'

'What do you mean, Harry?'

'I mean that last year I thought I knew everything happening, too, but it turned out Quirrell was Obliviating me and taboo-ing me and all sorts of things, and I was keeping all manner of secrets on top of that.' Harry stuck his thumbnail between his teeth to savage it. 'Tonks said Percy didn't want the Aurors-- well, the Order of the Phoenix, I'm pretty sure-- to have his memory about what happened to Filch. And I couldn't say why exactly, but I know what the reason really is. He's keeping something secret and he doesn't want them fiddling about in his head fishing out things he doesn't want anyone to know.'

'What on earth could Percy Weasley be hiding?' Hermione laughed. 'His secret plans to take over the Ministry by working his way up to Department Head or Undersecretary?'

'Maybe it's not anything bad. It's something personal, maybe. Something he thinks would be horrible for everyone to know, something embarrassing or bad for Purebloods or--' Something like being a werewolf. A word you were afraid to say aloud in case anyone thought the worst of you. Harry scrubbed both hands over his eyes. Or maybe whatever people would think of you was exactly what they ought to be thinking. Remus was out there in the Forest doing something suspicious right now. Or maybe not that suspicious. There was nothing evil in giving money and food to people. To other werewolves. People who needed it, because no-one else would give it to them. Harry dragged a hand through his hair. And by the logic of trust, Harry trusted Sirius, and he trusted Lyall, and both of them trusted Remus. He had trusted Remus, too, except for the secret that turned everything on its head and changed absolutely nothing.

Fang's barks announced Hagrid returning from the smokehouse with a pig that was seven stone at least. 'Er, Hagrid, I hope you're not planning for us to eat all of that,' Hermione said.

'Nonsense, the two o'you could do with some feeding up,' Hagrid replied brightly. 'And Harry, look, found a few bottles of your favourite butterbeer! All's we need now is some roasted potatoes.' He lobbed the pig onto the kitchen counter, and dug out a bushel of potatoes from a cabinet. Hermione cast Harry a look of sheer alarm.

'Sounds wonderful,' Harry said weakly.

 

 

**

 

 

'Leeks,' Snape announced, placing a dozen long stalks at Harry's workstation. 'I want them diced this way precisely: five inch lengths, sliced in half, then quartered, then in equal cuts no wider than the tip of your finger. Work slowly and carefully.'

'I thought this was supposed to be extra Potions lessons, not cooking.'

'Did I specify back-talk? I don't believe I did.'

Harry pinched back a scowl. 'Do you want the roots, sir?'

'No. Discard the first inch of each leek. Also discard the last inch of the green.' Snape retreated to his desk and a pile of marking, as seemed to be his new habit. If he was only going to pawn Harry off on dinner detail, what was the point? But the moment Harry drew a breath to protest, he thought better of it. Everything Snape did, he did on purpose. Asking him to explain himself was a good way to lose points.

So Harry picked a leek and got himself started. His knife cut cleanly through the stalk, sharpened just that morning in preparation for class. 'What recipe is this making?' he asked through clenched teeth.

'Why do you want to know? Does it change the nature of your dicing?'

'I suppose not. I'd just like to know.'

'You don't need to know the purpose of every charm you cast.'

'You mean the point of the spell? The purpose is the whole reason for casting the charm.'

'Such as?'

Harry measured out lengths of leek and marked where he meant to cut. 'Like a feather-weight charm making something light as a feather. Or Lumos making something light up. It's obvious what the purpose is.'

'Are the purposes of potions not as obvious?'

'I suppose so... sort of.' Harry decided to mark all the leeks and do everything in the same stage. 'I can understand most of them. Dragon pox vaccine. Stomach soother. That sort of thing.'

'What about Transfiguration?'

'That's harder.' Harry lined up his straight edge and lightly scored the leeks one by one. 'I'm not sure I see the point in turning a matchstick into a needle or a teapot into slippers. And I don't understand why I can't Transfigure anything into food.'

'The five principal exceptions to Gamp's Law states--'

'I know, it just doesn't make sense. You can Transfigure something into an animal, and kill it and eat it afterward, but you can't Transfigure a plate of sand into a cheese toasty.'

Snape gave a put-upon sigh. 'One cannot Transfigure an inanimate object into an animal and eat it-- or, at the very least, it is an ill-advised solution to hunger. The process of Transfiguration does not alter the essential nature of the original object. Your plate of sand would eventually revert from cheese, and I wish you joy in passing a bowel full of sand.'

Harry scrunched up his nose. 'Ew.'

'Indeed. This is also something you ought to have learnt in your classes last year.'

'I can't make it stick in my mind.' Now the only thing in his mind was a cheese toasty; he was hungry. He already knew from asking over the summer that Snape did not allow eating around potions, however. 'So I could Transfigure something alive into something else alive, and kill and eat that?'

'You could, though that begs the question why you'd need to Transfigure something already edible into something else edible.'

'Oh.' That was a good point. Harry began to halve the lengths. 'Sir? I was wondering... maybe I could ask you some questions about something important?'

'By all means, let us leave the banalities of your education, future career, and basic ability to process information and step into something  _truly_ important.'

Snape was in one of those moods. It was going to be hard going from here. 'About the Order of the Phoenix.'

Snape's expression closed so abruptly his face dropped all emotion, all life. He turned his head down to his marking, but though he lifted a parchment, his quill hovered, motionless. 'I have the sense you know entirely too much about that as it is.'

'A little more won't hurt, then.'

'Ask Lupin.'

'I... er, not just now.'

That piqued Snape's interest, but he was busy pretending not to look at Harry, so the quill just went on hanging there, his dark eyes not moving as he stared at an essay. 'What about the Order?'

That, Harry thought, was not permission to ask. That was Snape wanting to know what it was Harry wanted to know, and very probably Snape would decide not to answer. There were plenty of things Snape was willing to talk about, but a great many more he was not. Harry extended a cautious amount of bait. 'Tonks was here,' he said, 'with Bill Weasley. And there's no reason for an Auror and a curse-breaker from Gringotts to both be here on Auror business, so it must be Order business.'

'So you are capable of logic, when you concentrate.'

'Ha very ha.' Harry began to quarter the halves. 'Although maybe it's Auror business and Bill was just there as a Weasley and her boyfriend.'

The sound of the parchment hitting the table was not especially loud, but Snape's attempt to cover it was. He scraped back his chair and cleared his throat and resettled restlessly. 'And what could possibly have given you that impression?'

'Well, they kissed.'

'Did they?'

'The once that I saw, anyway. So do you know? If it was Order business? Only I've wondered whether everyone in the Order knows all the things the others know, or if some of you know one thing and others know others and so on.'

'Your syntax and grammar are appalling. Given that Lupin selected himself for the job of educating you in your youth, I lay the blame at his door.' Snape wrote something no doubt vicious and demeaning on the unfortunate essay and tossed it aside. 'Speaking of Lupin, the lense through which he has clearly attempted to influence you is also self-selected. His quarrel with Dumbledore goes back many years, before you were born.'

'He hasn't told me--' Harry cut himself off, an idea occurring to him. 'Told me that you knew about that bit,' he finished, pretending to be absorbed in his dicing. 'I knew Sirius knew, obviously.'

That went down like aces. 'Obviously,' Snape sneered. 'Whispered amongst other sweet nothings, snuggled close in bed by candlelight. Well, it's true enough. Information has value, and the more it's spread about the less value it has, just like money. Lupin may have no experience of monetary value, but he's very good at accumulating the other kind. Decently good. Not the best.'

'I'm sure not so good as you, sir.'

'Oh, now that is too far, Potter.' Snape gave him a keen-eyed glare. 'Flattery is a cheap tactic.'

Harry chewed at his lip. Time to go for broke. 'I'm only asking because... because I need to know what to do with my friends. Whether or not to tell them certain things, all the things.'

'If you have any valuable information you're planning to tell schoolchildren rather than a responsible adult, take another think, boy.'

'I'm not, I just-- look, it's the Weasely twins, all right, I'm thinking about whether to tell them about the black book, it's their brother after all.'

'The Twin bloody Terrors, that's who you want to tell? Has the pressure driven you mad, Potter?'

'Oh, never mind, all right?'

Snape's face twisted in a pained grimace. 'If you...  _must_... and I shall never, ever say this again and will Obliviate you myself if you should so much as breathe a word of it... they are not the absolute worst choice of confidante. But let me offer you a word of caution. The young people you've drawn about you have one trait in common-- have you realised yet what it is?'

'We're all first years? Second years. Except Cedric. And Sirius and Remus, sort of.'

'You drive me to despair sometimes.' Snape exed out an entire essay. 'Neville Longbottom. The last of his family line, indifferently talented, painfully shy. Hermione Granger, Muggleborn, overly talented and entirely without social graces that would enable her to use her talents in the Wizarding World. Ronald Weasley, the least of a family that regularly turns out able, popular, interesting heirs. Cedric Diggory, blessed with good looks, decent pedigree, modest intellect, and utterly devoid of ambition. Draco Malfoy, exactly the same, except his every ambition is bound up in a father and mother who have only their own interests at heart, not his. Entire treatises have been written about Sirius Black, but I can sum him up in a word: arrogant. Too arrogant to keep his head down and weather out his unhappy childhood the way the rest of us did, too arrogant to keep away from the centre of a war that had nothing to do with him, too arrogant to trust a man he claimed to love because Lupin didn't sufficiently bare his soul at every demand. Lupin-- Lupin may be the most pathetic of all. Wrong place, wrong time, that entirely sums him up, thirty-odd years of making up for an accident of fate. And you, Potter. A child of destiny who desperately wishes he were anything but.'

Harry's knife had fallen still. The leeks lay scattered across his workstation, bits sticking to his fingers. His chest felt very heavy, airless.

'You're misfits,' Snape said. 'Don't bring in allies like the Weasley twins, who would only try to change you. You needn't to be more like them, they needn't to be more like you. You have your own strengths. Don't undermine yourself before you've hardly begun.'

'That's what it was like with my mum, wasn't it. You and her.'

'It was the greatest regret of my life.' Snape blinked, finally, and Harry could breathe again. 'Take my advice or don't, but I hope you won't delay learning that lesson as long as I did. Creamed leeks.'

'I-- what?'

'Creamed leeks. You're making creamed leeks. I think you will succeed more in your spellwork if you stop worrying so much about why it works and what it's meant to do and focus solely on the process. A charm, a jinx, even some Transfiguration is straightforward-- at the level you currently study. The complexity will grow the longer you advance. Theory will hold you back-- struggling with it and ignoring it, both. But you need to get further than you are now. As much as it pains me, I'd rather have you capable than learned.'

'Oh.' Harry pushed a sliver of green across the table. 'So... I'll be strong, but stupid.'

'This disappoints you? How curious.' Snape took up another essay. 'Have you solved your problem with your lab partners yet?'

'No.'

Snape ostentatiously checked the time with a flick of his wand. 'Term will only last so long, you know.'

Harry waited til Snape was buried in an essay to stick out his tongue.


	11. You Needn't Die Happy, But You Should Die Satisfied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which The Here-After And The Here-Before Bear Equally On The Here-And-Now._

The arrival of an undead messenger bearing invitations came rather as a surprise. Harry had quite forgot Sir Nicholas's imminent Death Day celebration in all the whirlwind of activity that had passed since then.

The raven, half-desiccated, feathers bedraggled where they had not rotted out, elicited a few shrieks as it lurched through the air overtop the students at their breakfasts. Someone fired off a hex, and the raven screeched as it banked its crooked wings in a dive. It landed in a grotesque sprawl that scattered toast in all directions and dumped a pitcher of pumpkin juice into the lap of a very irritated Angelina, plastering her robes to her body in a way that had the older boys leering appreciatively. The raven clambered its way up the table, snapping off one of its scaled legs in the process, and spat a slender scroll onto Harry's plate.

'Oh,' Harry said, 'er... thanks.'

'Crrrruck,' the raven rasped, and fell over, unmoving. Ron leant in to poke at it. It didn't so much as twitch.

That ranked as one of the more unusual things Harry had seen in his time in the Wizarding World. Harry broke the seal on the invitation and unrolled it.

'Oh, it's the same time as the Halloween feast,' Hermione noted, reading over his shoulder.

'Good,' Harry muttered. He had no especial desire to celebrate Halloween. Last year he had learnt that Halloween night was the night of Harry's parents' deaths, killed in Voldemort's vicious attack. 'The rest of you needn't come, though, if you don't like. I know the feast is supposed to be grand.'

This last was for Ron, who did look torn. But after only a moment's silent struggle, Ron shrugged. 'Nah,' he said. 'Besides, I bet Sir Nick'll have a big spread. Not much of a Death Day without a buffet, is it?'

'How am I supposed to return our RSVP without the bird?' Harry wondered, peering dubiously at the raven's withered corpse.

'Maybe a hand delivery,' Neville suggested.

The bell rang, forestalling further conversation. The Great Hall filled with the sound of chairs scraping across the stone, bags being grabbed, plates vanishing as the exodus of students began. Harry stuffed in one last bite of cereal as he rose, pocketing the invitation and hesitating only because he wasn't sure how the house elves would handle the appearance of a dead bird amongst the breakfast dishes. But it vanished along with the empty platters and crumbs. Harry only hoped elves weren't especially squeamish.

Care of Magical Creatures had come to be rather uncomfortable for Harry. It was still one of the best classes, and with the added fun of being all Houses together so he could see his friends, but all that had palled under the shadow of his row with Remus. Worse, the fact that it was barely a row, and that Remus scrupulously avoided anything remotely like confrontation. He had only called on Harry once, since the morning Harry pretended to be ill, and had called him Mr Potter and thanked him for his answer as if he were any other boy. It was wretched, and more wretched still that Harry knew it was his own fault.

'Good morning,' Remus said, when everyone had gathered on Hogwarts' great grassy lawn with their notebooks. 'We'll be leaping right in this lesson. Today we're going to talk about werewolves.'

Harry went very still. Hermione's head turned toward him.

Remus was wan-looking. Harry looked him in the face for the first time in days, and saw dark circles about his eyes, cheeks gone thin, hair limp where it usually curled. He didn't look well. It was that time of the month. Of the moon.

'Everyone sit where you are,' Remus said. 'We've no stations today. We're only going to interview someone. I'd like you all to be polite and kind. Remember that we are ambassadors for Hogwarts, with our school's reputation to uphold.'

Murmurs passed through the crowd of students as everyone settled on the grass. 'What is he doing?' Hermione whispered to Harry, but he could only shake his head, not trusting himself to speak even if he had any idea what to say.

Remus had gone to Hagrid's hut. He returned, now, leading a child by hand, and a woman came along at his heels. Harry recognised them, or thought he did, and Hermione's indrawn breath confirmed it. Remus had been giving money to this woman the night they'd spied him at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Now they came cringeing into the shade of the old oak, to sit on a chair that Hagrid placed on a spread quilt. The woman was a slender witch with a long plait of mousy brown, with pale eyes over red cheeks blushing at their scrutiny, shy like her son-- he was perhaps four or five, fair-haired, and he sat at his mum's feet but hid his face in her legs, peeking at all the curious faces staring back at him.

'Please welcome our guests, class,' Remus said.

The words went around the crowd, an uncertain chorus with tatty edges. Harry clutched his notebook tight in his fists.

'This is Mrs Halliday,' Remus went on. 'And this is Jono. They're from Durham. And they've very nicely agreed to answer questions from us today. I know this is beyond the usual cirriculum for your year, but this is a rare opportunity and I thought it best to take advantage of their schedule before they moved on with their journey.' Perhaps Remus was nervous, too. He nodded one too many times, as he did when holding back his emotions, but the face he showed them all was stoic. 'Would anyone like to begin our interview?'

There was a strange silence then. Oppressive and weighted. When a hand went up, tentative, it was from the far left of the crowd, and Harry couldn't see who it was, didn't immediately recognise the voice.

'Professor? Are they... are they the werewolves?'

'The interview isn't with me, Miss Parks. Please ask them directly.'

A moment of chargin. Then, bravely, 'Mrs... Mrs Halliday, are you a werewolf?'

The woman in the chair clasped her hands convulsively on her knees. But her nod was firm. 'Yes, dear. Both of us.'

'Both!' That went around the crowd in a hiss. But a few more hands went up. Remus called on the one nearest the front.

'Even the little boy?' asked Pansy Parkinson.

'Jono was born with it,' Mrs Halliday said. She reached down to stroke her son's hair. 'It can pass through the bloodline. I worried during the pregnancy, but... my husband wanted to go through with it.'

That was nearly too frank for a few. Millie made a little noise of distress, and Harry looked at her with concern, but she wasn't the only one. Some of the hands that had been raised went down. Remus called on another.

'But you knew he'd be born with it?'

'It's not certain. No way to know until the baby is born.' Mrs Halliday put on a braced smile. 'My Tom was a Muggle. Don't suppose he quite understood what it all meant.'

'But isn't it awful?' This was a passionate interjection, from a Hufflepuff boy to Harry's right.

'It's hard,' Mrs Halliday replied simply.

'But what do you do during the full moon?'

That was the bravest yet. It fell into a kind of hush, and several of the students were leaning forward, breathless. Harry found his eyes drifting to Remus. He hadn't thought of that, what Remus did. In his mind he could only see the image from that textbook in the library, the man howling inside a barred cage.

'We used an old Muggle bomb shelter,' the woman answered. 'Back in Durham, at least. Since we left there, it's been something different every moon, but we'll be back to normal soon.'

'What's it like, Ma'am?'

'It's a little different every time, really.' Jono had begun to overcome his shyness, and climbed into her lap as she spoke. Mrs Halliday settled him facing outward, with his pink bow mouth in a little moue of wonder, staring back at all the students staring at him. Mrs Halliday combed his blonde hair with her fingers. 'When the moon begins to rise, it's mostly itchy-- Jono here calls it ants in his pants.' A startled giggle swept through the crowd. Jono grinned and hid his face in his hands. 'It comes on the day before, sometimes. Some of us get hungry-- I get the worst craving for a good roast, like me gran used to make for Sunday tea. As for becoming the wolf, well, that part's always the same. No-one remembers it. The curse takes over, and it's lights out til sun-up.'

'Are you registered?'

That question came from the knot of Slytherin students all seated together in the back. Draco was one of them, but when Harry twisted to see if it had been him asking, he saw Draco sitting with his thumbnail between his teeth, biting viciously.

Remus made his first interjection, speaking up quietly from his spot at the edge of the old oak. He said, 'According to the Werewolf Code of Conduct established in the 1600s, werewolves are meant to register themselves with the Ministry department responsible for the regulation of beasts and beings. This is only patchily enforced, owning to the difficulty of identifying werewolves who don't come forward voluntarily.'

'We did register,' Mrs Halliday told them. 'Both me and my son. But we tried to move to the Muggle world, with my husband, and they stopped us. So Tom left, and we had to stay behind.'

'He just left you?' Hermione burst out, confusion warring with outrage on her face.

Mrs Halliday only nodded. 'It's a difficult thing,' she said. 'I don't blame him. Not saying as I'd take him back if he were to show up again, but I suppose I do understand.'

'Do you take the Wolfsbane?'

'Can't afford it.' Jono whispered something up to her, and Mrs Halliday nodded. Jono climbed off her lap and ran to Hagrid, who led him to the pumpkin patch. She watched him go. 'Not every apothecary sells it. Can't make it. Have to buy it from a licensed dealer, and it don't come cheap. Two doses a day for four days before the moon. For the two of us.'

Wolfsbane. Remus's mysterious potion. And it made him desperately ill. Harry couldn't imagine a little boy like Jono half-conscious and retching and shaking the way Remus, a man grown, always did. Or Mrs Halliday, who seemed healthy enough, but whose robe didn't entirely cover the shabby state of her shoes or the ragged hem of her trousers. Remus had money enough for the potion-- or Sirius did-- but Harry hadn't quite thought of that, how hard it was to get it, and that he'd never be able to stop taking it, never ever.

He raised his hand before he thought better of it. 'Ma'am? Only... only you'll have to-- you'll be-- you'll be werewolves your entire lives, won't you?'

Mrs Halliday inclined her head, once. Her eyes tracked after Jono chasing the crows in Hagrid's garden. 'Yes, love, we will be. However long that is.'

'What does that mean?'

That was Draco, emboldened, maybe, that Harry had asked something. His voice snapped out, abrupt, overtop one of the Patil twins who was asking something else.

'It means that not many werewolves live to be old ladies.' Mrs Halliday smiled in that forced way, like she was keeping it on her mouth with all the effort she had in her, and still couldn't make it reach her eyes. 'It's hard on the body, the transformations, whether you've got the potion or not. Ages you. Then there's the Ministry. They track werewolves as best they can. There's raids sometimes. I don't know what happens to the ones they take, but no-one ever sees them again.'

'That's only the ones who break the law, though.'

'Is it?' Remus asked in return, and the girl who'd said that faltered and didn't argue her point. 'Being a werewolf at all is breaking the law. It's against the law to spread the curse-- to bite anyone-- but once you've been bit, there's regulations governing every aspect of life. Does anyone know how many?' There was no answer to that. Not a single hand raised, even Hermione. 'Three hundred seventy-four. Currently. The number changes year by year. They regulate everything from where you can live to how much you must pay in rent, where you can walk in the open and where you may not use public transportation. What you have to tell your manager when you hire on. What you have to tell them even before you've applied. There are restrictions on where you may shop and what you may buy. The list of what you may not do is very much longer than the list of what you may.'

'But it's so everyone's safe,' said Eloise Midgen.

'Yes, that is the alleged purpose,' Remus replied, in a clipped tone that he seemed to immediately regret. He made a pacifying motion, and sighed. 'Yes, Miss Midgen, you're correct, and it is important to consider the safety of the many against the needs of the few. Our elected officials are charged with determining the best balance of those two considerations. Any further questions for Mrs Halliday?'

There were a few more. The Patils wanted to know what jobs Mrs Halliday had held-- she had a talent at gardening, she said, though most often she turned that to foraging for rare ingredients in the woods to sell; she did some sewing and some craftwork, good luck charms and so forth. Hermione had come up with several more questions, but Remus limited her to two: when had Mrs Halliday been bitten-- at nineteen-- and by whom-- 'I never had his name, funny enough,' she answered, and this solicited a few guilty giggles. 'There was talk of some break-ins, our area of town. I heard a window break and went to the kitchen. Don't remember much of what came next. I was terrible sick with it, the month up to my first moon. I could barely leave me bed. And it was near the death of me, that awful night.' She bared her forearms to show them her scars, and a few students even rose from their seats to look. 'You can touch,' she encouraged them, but only a few took her up on it. They were thick ropes of white tissue, deep gouges across the healthy pink of her skin.

'Does it hurt?' Susan Bones asked, looking fascinated and repulsed both.

'Not anymore. It's the little aches that do me in. The hips are the worst, and the joints. Jono about breaks my heart, though.' Her voice thinned to nothing, and everyone hushed guiltily, looking to where Jono chased crows in Hagrid's garden and laughed brightly. 'Gets me up and going, though,' Mrs Halliday amended. 'Morning after, I give him a lay-in as I can, and massage his arms and legs. I've a good remedy of camphor and lavendar. Soothes away the sore.'

'I'm going to draw our interview to a close,' Remus said then, when no-one dared ask anything else, and the silence had gone on too long. 'You will spend the rest of our class working with a partner on your assignment. I'd like you to work with someone from another House. There is no requirement to turn in any written work, though you may, if you like. All you are asked to do is to talk with your parnter. Have a discussion. Share your questions with each other. There will be a supplemental reading later in the year-- I had to go on backorder, so it's not arrived yet. We'll revisit the topic when it comes in.'

The class dispersed in odd shattered clumps. Some went running for their friends and talked in high excited voices; some looked numb, sitting where they were as if they'd been immobilised. Some looked troubled, like Neville-- like Draco, who came arrowing in at Harry to seize him by the wrist and drag him to his feet. Harry stumbled after him as Draco yanked him along, downhill and away from Hagrid's toward the stream that fed the Black Lake. They weren't the only ones seeking a private spot, but they were the only ones venturing so far to get it, and Harry wondered for a moment if they'd be in trouble. But of course they wouldn't be. Remus had just arranged an entire class to pass Harry that message.

Draco ducked into the shelter of a mossy boulder, dragging Harry down with him. He let out a breath, staring into the gold glint of sun on the stream, his chest moving up and down and the rest of him still. His hand on Harry's cramped tight, a damp stinging grip.

'It's okay to cry sometimes,' Draco said then, in that way he had of breaking the silence with a crack shot.

Harry wiped at his cheek. He was surprised to find his hand came away wet. He rubbed it away on his robe.

'He's a werewolf, isn't he.'

'Yeah,' Harry rasped.

'I knew there was something. I don't think Father knows what it is. Scrimgeour must know. That's how he has Professor Lupin working for him. He's blackmailing him.'

That wasn't what the Chief Auror had on Remus. Harry thought. He didn't know what he thought. He only knew what Remus had told him, and that what Remus had told him seemed to have more and more holes in it. Or did it? How much had been said that Harry hadn't properly heard? All this time Sirius and Lyall had talked rings round it, without ever saying the word. Werewolf. It explained so much.

'There's a story,' Draco said. 'A story they tell kids. Dobby used to read it to me. It was my favourite to hear at bedtime. The Little Red Witch and the Werewolf.'

Harry dug his heel into the damp grass. He dug until he hit dirt. 'Sounds like Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf.'

'Muggles have it too?'

'She's not a witch. He eats her, and a woodsman kills the wolf with an axe.'

'It's a silver blade in ours. And then she kills herself rather than live as a-- you know.'

'That's a bloody bedtime story?'

'Dobby always did the voices.' Draco pulled up a handful of grass and shredded it. 'Is he... is he dangerous? I mean to say... I mean to say, maybe he's what Dobby was warning us about. Danger at the school.'

'He is not!' Harry shoved to his feet. 'Why would you say that?'

'Well we don't know what else it could be!'

'Colin and Filch weren't bit by a werewolf, and it wasn't even on the full moon!'

'Maybe he's covering it up, I don't know. Harry, don't you want to find out what's going on in the school? And Professor Lupin did have the black book--'

'I gave it back to him.'

Draco rolled his head back in an exaggerated huff. 'Well done, old man.'

'Well I didn't know what else to do!'

' _Lie_ , you great idiot! Tell him one of the rest of us had it, tell him Dobby took it, tell him Father took it back!'

'Wouldn't he just ask your father if that were true--'

'He'd assume Father was lying when he said it wasn't. Merlin's beard, no wonder the Hat put you in Gryffindor if that's the best you can do.'

'Well, it's not Remus anyway, all right, how could it be? I was with him the night Colin was petrified-- I was with him,' Harry said, realising it entirely for the first time. 'I am an utter ass.'

'No argument.'

'No, I meant I thought it couldn't be Percy because it might be Remus, but it can't be Percy because I'd given the book back to Remus, and Dobby says it's the book that's the trouble.' He groaned. 'And I can't tell the Aurors that Percy didn't have the book because then I'd have to tell them Remus did have it, and also that your dad gave it to him--'

'Dobby.'

'What about him?'

'Hush. Dobby!' Draco said again, loudly, looking around. He craned his head to see round their boulder, and sat back disgruntled. 'Dobby?'

'What are you doing?'

'Trying to summon him. Father did tell me not to expect him to come to school if I was homesick or anything stupid like that, but that was before first year, you'd think things'd be different now.'

'He didn't come when he magicked us away to Cornwall either.' Harry sat again, facing Draco, folding his legs beneath him tailor-style. 'The Hogwarts' elves must be able to stop themselves answering when students call, or Ron would be hand-fed twenty four hours a day.'

'Those aren't family elves, though.' Draco slumped back against the rock. 'I can try writing to Father about the book.'

'I suppose that's all we've left to try.' That was such an unsatisfying answer. 'We could... we could tell someone else.'

'Who?'

'Sirius.'

'You think your godfather would really believe Professor Lupin was holding the book away when it might be dangerous?'

'If Scrimgeour's making him do it.'

'Sirius isn't in the school, though, except for when Duelling Club is on, and then he's busy overseeing it. It should be someone who can get around without being noticed.'

'You mean Snape,' Harry guessed.

'Sorry, I thought we were just suggesting godfathers til we ran out of them. What do you have against Severus?'

Confronted with it, Harry could hardly have explained it. Snape was perfect for the post of spy; he had access to any part of the school, he was a teacher just like Remus and he was in the Order of the Phoenix, and he seemed to have his long nose in all the creepy Dark things that lurked in the unspoken tales of the war. And Harry would even have the perfect excuse for telling him-- Snape already knew about the book, he just didn't know who had it at present.

But there was something stopping him. He marked, too, that Snape didn't always like Remus, even if they got on better this year because they were both trying to figure out Harry's magical allergy and all its associated issues. Harry remembered vividly how pleased Snape had been when Remus had been arrested last year for colluding with Sirius instead of capturing him for the Aurors. It just felt-- it just felt a little like taking sides, picking Snape over Remus, and whatever his qualms of late he knew he couldn't do that.

'You're ungrateful,' Draco said in his old snotty way. 'There's students who would murder for tutoring from a Potions Master of his quality. And you can barely bother to turn in decent work.'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'Oh, come off it, Draco.'

'Maybe at that orphanage you were used to under-achieving, but some of us mean to make something of ourselves.'

'Rude,' Harry retorted, quite offended by this.

'You've got some other minor talents, you might make professional Quidditch as a back-bencher if you luck your way through a few good matches--'

'Are you trying to be offencive?'

'Yes.'

Harry snapped his jaws shut. 'Well... why?'

'It's the perogative of pure blood.'

'Being a prat?'

'Tell Granger to make a list of things, she likes doing that. Then decide which things are incriminating and mark those off. Anything that's left over, you should tell Severus. We have to trust someone.' Draco examined his hands as if the sliver of dirt beneath one nail were fascinating, but his mouth was twisted as if he chewed at his cheek. 'If we can't trust my father and you won't trust yours, Snape's about what we're left with.'

'My what?'

'You come off it, Harry,' Draco said, and stood, brushing off his robe. 'That's the bell.'

Ron had collected his books for him, and met them coming back uphill from the stream. Class had dispersed, the crowd of second years headed to the castle. Mrs Halliday and Jono had gone, and Remus stood talking to Hagrid. He nodded to Harry, but nothing more, and Harry ducked his gaze.

'Thanks,' he told Ron, shouldering his pack, and followed his friends inside.

 

 

**

 

 

The best that could be said about All Hallow's Eve was that neither Harry nor his parents were front-page news.

Harry didn't quite understand the enthusiasm wizards had for the holiday. Muggles weren't so mad for it. There was some fancy dress here or there and the occasional jack o'lantern, and various sugary treats were more readily available, but Crowhill had been strictly Christmas and Easter, with little acknowledgement of its Muslim or Jewish residents, except when Mr Thompkins went on one of his rants in Religion class. Halloween and anything pagan had been out of the question. So he observed the tide of decorations with bemusement, and the giggling excitement over costumes and masks and various ghoulish traditions with reserve. For once, he was in closer accord with Dean and Seamus than Neville and Ron-- he and his Muggle-raised dormmates shook their head over the corn-husk streamers that suddenly festooned their Pureblood roommates' beds, though they took their share of the sweets basket Ron's mum delivered, not being that committed to disdain that they'd turn down home-cooked pumpkin pasties, twists of orange and black taffy, candycorns and caramel apples. Blaise and an unusually talkative Teddy Nott explained at great length about Samhain and its importance in wizarding culture, and Millie told him about the traditional bonfires and the history of trickstering. The entire castle was swarming with candles, and the school ghosts were putting in more appearances than usual, and Hagrid had been doing a lot of brushing up at the small graveyard on the grounds, and especially at the Founders' Monument and the Standing Stones, where Dumbledore would be leading a ritual of remembering the dead.

'Did all this happen last year?' Harry asked Hermione.

'Yes,' she reminded him. 'Although we were all a bit busy with the troll, as I recall.'

'Huh.'

There was the small matter of appropriate dress for Sir Nicholas's Death Day party. Hermione had indeed done her research, and discovered it was appropriate to honour the era of the celebrant with the style of their time, which presented a problem for a group of children born in the 1980s. Draco asserted it was never unfashionable to appear in formal robes, but he was the only one who'd brought any to school. Harry had the nice clothes Sirius had bought him for Christmas last year, and, since he hadn't grown but a small bit, they still fit well. Ron, who'd gone up an inch just since the beginning of term, was too long in the wrist and ankle to wear anything of Harry's, and ended up in Dean's shirt and Oliver Wood's shined shoes. Hermione dithered at great length, but appeared at last in the Gryffindor common room in a borrowed frock cinched back at the waist with a pin. The skirt dragged a bit on the floor, unless she gathered it up with one hand, but to Harry she looked like one of the maidens in his old King Arthur books, and he thought Sir Nick would probably like that. She was installed on one of the sofas before the fire with Lavender Brown and the Patil twins fussing over her hair as Harry fed Scabbers a supper of pellets and scraps from luncheon. The rat was looking leaner, Harry thought, and hoped it wasn't anxiety over losing his owner. Scabbers would eat well on a Feast night, specially as Harry had taken to leaving him out in the common room to be cossetted by Gryffindor at large.

'Why are you wearing a costume?' he asked Neville, who came shuffling down the stairs in something that looked rather a lot like Hermione's frock, only made of dragging folds that reminded Harry of the hideous velvet curtains in Potter Manor, all stained lace and jacquard and brocaded peacocks.

Neville's face flushed bright with embarrassment. 'Formal robes,' he mumbled, and leant up the stairs the way he'd come, yearning toward escape. 'I should change--'

'We'll be late,' Ron said. 'And not fashionably.'

'Oi, Nev, did the sofa try to eat you?' Seamus asked curiously.

'They were Lord Longbottom's,' Neville groaned. 'And they smell about a century old, too.'

'It's only for a few hours,' Hermione soothed him. 'You look very dashing.' She lied as convincingly as she could, her face frozen in a smile that tried too hard to project sincerity. Neville groaned again.

They met up with Cedric, who only had his school uniform and black robe but looked as effortlessly handsome as always. Cho Chang had joined him, as Harry saw no harm in bringing her along on something that was purely social, not at all related to the Knights of Jupiter; she wore her student robe as well, but had draped about her neck a pretty scarf and wore her hair up with nice earrings. Draco, who rather reminded Harry of the Wizard of Oz in a getup of emerald and silver that washed him out to a pale oval of face and hair, had brought a guest as well-- Blaise Zabini, who carried off the look better than Draco did, with his dark skin and bright green eyes. Blaise installed himself rather casually at Hermione's side, and she seemed a bit flustered by it, Harry noticed. Altogether they made a motley crew as they headed away from the Great Hall, fighting against the flow of foot traffic til they had gone up a few flights of stairs and found themselves in lonelier corridors. The bulk of the decorations were behind them, but Harry found the emptiness far more spooky. In all his years he'd almost never been in a place that wasn't stuffed to the gills with other boys-- there was no being alone in Crowhill. He liked Hogwarts best like this, but just now it put him in mind of things like finding Colin Creevey, all alone and petrified that night, and he shivered, chilled to the bone.

Eventually they passed beneath a cobwebbed arch and walked along a lofted corridor with great cracked windows that overlooked the high bright moon and the dancing flames of the bonfire out on the lawn. Hagrid could be just be seen out there, lobbing student-sized logs onto the blaze. Hermione waved, just in case he should look up and spot them overhead, but then Cedric said, 'Ah, at last,' and Harry realised what it was Cedric had heard. Music. A grim and mournful funeral dirge, to be exact, ghosting through the night like the--

Well, like the ghosts, who were popping out of walls and floating down through the ceiling to converge on the old ballroom that was their destination. Sir Nick was hovering beneath a grand banner and welcoming his guests as they arrived. 'Ah, young Master Harry!' he boomed out, in unusually hollow tones, as if his voice echoed from a deep tomb. 'I am honoured by the presence of the living as well as the departed,' he added, dipping into a low bow.

'Thank you so much for the invitation,' Harry replied, and hefted the box he carried. 'We brought the traditional gift. We all chipped in.'

'Gifts? But you are too kind!' Sir Nick replied, sounding more himself then as he brightened in delight. 'May I?'

'Of course.' Harry tipped off the lid, turning his face away and sucking in a breath of clean air before the odour could assault his nose. Hermione had been adamant about the gift, and certainly Sir Nick was making noises of approval and appreciation, but it was pretty disgusting. They had begged rotted food off the house elves, a mouldy wedge of cheese, several browning bits of fruit, a maggoty chicken carcass, and something Harry suspected had once been mushroom pie and was now a slimy green blob. Cedric had contributed a pair of dead fish from the Black Lake, and Neville had collected compost from the greenhouses after Herbology one day, and Harry had scooped up a pair of smelly turds from Fang's business outside Hagrid's hut. Draco had added one of Harry's failed potions. The noxious combination could have knocked back a troll. Sir Nick looked positively ecstatic poking his ectomorphic nose in the box.

'Ahhh,' he sighed gustily. 'Truly, I am honoured by your considerate gift. Of all the earthly senses I left behind when I began my afterlife, I miss scent the most. It takes a good whiff to penetrate the planes!'

'I'm so glad you like it,' Hermione said modestly, through the fingers pinching her nostrils shut.

'I shall treasure it til it mummifies!' he promised.

The ringing shatter of glass turned every head in the place. Several of the ghosts applauded rapturously, though Sir Nick soured again, as a pack of ghosts on undead steeds galloped mid-air through the windows. They performed some sort of impromptu rodeo (tourney, Blaise corrected him) for the adoring crowd.

'Patrick Delaney-Podmore,' Sir Nick muttered. 'He thinkest to steal mine thunder, the foul knave.'

'Nicholas!' bellowed the lead horseman, bowing from the saddle. His head popped right off as he bent, and with a grand sweep he caught it up again in his hat, setting off a fresh round of clapping and cheers. Neville shuddered as the head squished back into place on the sheared neck. 'Happy Death Day, old chap, happy day indeed.'

Sir Nick's smile was extra frosty. 'I thought thou wert otherwise occupied, Patrick. So  _glad_ thou couldst make it.'

'Wouldn't be a party without a visit from the Hunt!' Sir Patrick sniffed the air broadly. 'My word, what is that delicious smell?'

Harry obeyed Sir Nick's quick shooing motion, clapping the lid back on his box and hiding it behind him. Cedric took it and smoothly hid it beneath the skirt of a tablecloth. 'Must be the buffet,' Sir Nick answered, and floated away to lead his guests toward it. 'Please, help yourself, everyone. Catered by Noble's Nibbles in Diagon Alley-- an entire month's worth of rubbish,' he added proudly, as many of the ghosts ooohed and aaahed.

'Did he say rubbish?' Ron complained. 'Does that mean there's nothing normal to eat?'

'Oh, I thought I'd told you,' Hermione said. 'Traditional Death Day parties don't serve consumable foods. It's like the gifts-- ghosts can't eat, and they can barely smell, so they only serve really horrid things and sort of float through it. Justinius Superfluous speculated that ghosts can "taste" the death.'

'Fascinating,' Blaise said, and Hermione blinked at him, perhaps surprised that anyone expressed real interest in her endless reading. They all watched a distinguished-looking lady in a flowing cloak of fluorescent fur take a trip through the buffet. She hunched over and flew through the table with her mouth open, grey tongue lolling and eyes rolling up as she savoured a gulp of stinking shellfish. 'Exquisite,' they heard her compliment Sir Nick.

'I wonder if it can have anything to do with a sense-memory?' Blaise wondered. 'A sort of psychic nostalgia?'

'I wonder if any of the ghosts would do an interview,' she said, peering around for anyone else they knew.

'Blech,' Ron said. 'That helped, actually. I don't think I'll ever be hungry again.'

'Five galleons,' Draco bet, just beating out Harry, who blurted 'Six!' 'Done,' they agreed, shaking on it. Ron glared.

'Let's mingle,' Cedric suggested. He offered his arm to Cho. 'I saw the Fat Friar over on the left.'

'The Grey Lady is here too,' Cho agreed, and off they went.

'The Bloody Baron came,' Blaise observed, raising an elegant brow. 'He doesn't socialise with the other ghosts much. I'd introduce you, if you like, Granger. He doesn't usually speak to students from other Houses, but my mother's third husband was a descendant of his, on the maternal side.'

'Really?' Hermione looked intrigued by this. Harry wasn't sure what she found enticing about a bigoted ghost-- 'students from other Houses' was almost certainly code for Pureblood, something Hermione usually disliked, but perhaps the lure of living-- so to speak-- history was too much temptation. 'Let's bring him a plate from the buffet. He might be more talkative on a full stomach. Er, you know what I mean.'

'Good idea,' Blaise nodded. He offered his arm, every bit as gallant as Cedric, but Hermione had already taken off at a determined stride for the food. Blaise was left trailing after her with a disgruntled grump.

'Ha,' Draco said. 'Serves him right. All that money makes him overconfident. Not that you'd know, Weasley.'

'I don't care if it is a party, I'll pop you in the nose,' Ron threatened.

'Be nice,' Neville told them. 'I actually have some questions for the Fat Friar, do you think he'd talk to me? I heard he bred the Morpheus Flower.'

'He invented the Morpheus Draught,' Draco disagreed. 'He was a Potions Master--'

'Potions  _teacher_ , and the best Masters keep their own greenhouses and breed their own stock,' Neville countered.

'You may be right,' Draco gave over, less grudgingly than he might have, since he considered himself an expert in anything he opened his mouth to speak on, and Neville looked rather gratified, having stood up for himself quite forwardly, since he considered his own opinion the weakest in anything at all like an argument. Harry hid a smile, amused at his friends, and glad of them.

'Just leaves us,' Ron said, when Neville and Draco had gone off to talk to their target. Ron was rubbing his stomach absently, but he had sneaked along a handful of chocolates and two pasties from his mum's basket and crumbs on his shirt indicated he'd already attended his snacks. 'Never thought a party with Death in the title would be boring, but this is worse than when Mum and Dad have over his colleagues from the office. It's just a bunch of dull talk and adults milling about, innit.'

'A bit,' Harry said. The quartet of ghostly musicians didn't seem to play anything but depressing funeral hymns. And the stench off the buffet was starting to make him a bit light-headed. 'I don't think anyone would notice if you wanted to go to the Feast instead.'

'Nah, s'all right.' Ron shuffled in place, looking about him incuriously. 'You know who'd really've enjoyed this? Percy. Imagine him asking the ghosts for references.'

Harry could indeed imagine that. Thinking about Percy still gave him a sinking stomach. 'Yeah,' he said. 'Maybe we could ask Sir Nick to write him one anyway? Couldn't hurt. Although I'm not altogether sure how ghosts manage to write if they can't hold pens.'

'Quills.'

'Whatever.' Harry frowned into the dim. The dripping wax candles that turned the castle into such a fire hazard created an odd refractive glare on his glasses, but he was sure he'd just seen Sirius. 'We're not the only living invited,' he said.

'No? Who?'

'Come on.' He tugged at Ron's sleeve and led him round the crowd toward the windows. (The velvet drapes did indeed bear a strong resemblance to Neville's grandfather's robe.) 'Sirius?' he called as they neared, but his steps faltered. Sirius's hair wasn't long like this man's. And Sirius didn't float a foot above the stone tile, either.

'Oh, wow,' Ron breathed. 'Harry, who is that?'

In all other respects, the ghost was Sirius's twin. Or, Harry thought, gazed stupefied at the ghost, Sirius as he'd been in the pictures Harry had of him-- the albums from Sirius's school days, young and bright with laughter and mischief. The ghost had his dark hair, his strong jaw and aquiline nose, his broad shoulders and lanky height. As ghosts did, he wore what he must have died in, a boat-necked jumper and corduroy trousers under a torn mackintosh and muddy wellies. His hair hung tangled and wet down his back, dripping luminescent droplets that vanished before they hit the floor.

'H...hello?' Harry said. 'Sir?' No response. The ghost stared out the windows with a slack mouth, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Harry dared another step. 'Sir? Hello?'

'He won't talk to you, I'm afraid.' Sir Nick had found his way to them again. 'Bit of a loner, this one. I wasn't sure he'd come.'

'Who is he?' Harry asked, eyeing the ghost with misgiving. He supposed he had grown rather used to the fact of ghosts, since coming to the Wizarding World, but there was something haunting about this man that he'd come to overlook in more animated shades like Sir Nick, who talked and laughed and occasionally plotted with them. This man was more like ghosts in Muggle horror stories. A little mad, a little frightening.

'He hasn't shared his name,' Sir Nick confided. 'And it would be terribly impolite to ask, you know. But he's been with us some measure of years, now. It happens, sometimes-- unless you're possessing a particular place, 'tis a more congenial company at Hogwarts than one finds elsewhere. Why, we have some thirty and six in regular residence, to say nothing of our seasonal visitors.'

'I say, Sir Nicholas, what a positively gloomsome event!' trilled the ghost of an old hag. Sir Nick waved her a properly gloomsome greeting, and left Harry and Ron with a dignified nod.

'Maybe he's some ancestor or something of Sirius's,' Ron guessed, looking a bit subdued himself. There was something very sad about the man. The way he stared off into the night as if he hardly knew where he was.

'Sirius hasn't ever mentioned any family ghosts.' That, Harry thought, and the ghost didn't look ancient the way many of the others did. His clothes weren't quite modern, but he wasn't mediaeval, like Sir Nick and the Fat Friar. There was supposed to be a ghost in one of the girls' lavatories who had died only a few decades ago. She'd been named in Rita Skeeter's article about people who'd died on Hogwarts' grounds. And the ghost of the last Care of Magical Creatures professor less the one Remus had replaced was barely fifteen years dead-- he was by the buffet talking to the Grey Lady, Cedric, and Cho, telling an animated story with the stumps of his bitten-off arms waving wildly.

'Sir?' Harry tried again. 'Mister... Mr Black?'

The ghost didn't stir. Harry risked a reach; his hand went through the ghost's shoulder, of course, but that at least caught the man's attention. The ghost started violently, flinging his hand up as if to protect his face from assault. If he'd been standing on two feet and not floating as ghosts did, he would have fallen-- as it was, he flew back several feet and through a stone buttress. Harry peeked around it, and found the ghost sprawled on all fours, looking wildly about him.

'Sir?' Harry asked, stepping forward thinking to help somehow. But the ghost's head snapped up, wide silver eyes locking on Harry's face. And then he grabbed at a locket hanging about his neck, clutched it tight, and he vanished.

'I didn't think ghosts could teleport,' Harry said.

'Tele-what?'

'Apparate,' Harry corrected, turning about to face Ron. 'That was dashed odd.'

'Even for Hogwarts,' Ron nodded. 'You think he really might be related to Sirius?'

'And does Sirius even know he's here, whoever he is?'

'Remus would know, wouldn't he?' Ron scuffed Oliver's shoe along a crack in the marble tile. 'Since they're, you know, so close.'

Remus would. Remus knew something about everything, though whether he'd tell Harry remained to be seen. If Harry meant to ask, though, it would require a very good apology first.

Harry screwed up his face and heaved a heavy sigh. He owed a good apology. And he'd dithered over it long enough.

'Cover for me,' Harry said. 'There's something I really need to do.'

'You want company?'

'Yes,' Harry said, 'but I think this is something I ought to do in private. Go to the Feast. Save me something for later.'

'Yeah.' Ron chewed at his lip a moment, then heaved a sigh of his own. 'You remember what Hermione told you, right-- you don't have to do it alone.'

'This, I do. Thanks, though. For the reminder. Really. Ron--' That stopped Ron less than a step away. Ron turned back. 'Your brothers want to join the Knights,' Harry said. 'Think it over for me? You'll know best whether or not it's a good idea. I'll trust to whatever you decide.'

The faint frown line between Ron's brows smoothed. 'Really? Yeah, I'll consider it. Carefully.'

'I know you will. Er-- also Cedric's girlfriend. And if them, then, maybe you'll know others we should bring in.'

'I'll let you know. Harry, don't forget your invisibility cloak, if you are going to be roaming about alone tonight. Whatever's happening in the school, you of all people should be on the alert.'

 

 

 

Ron's advice to take his cloak was clever. Harry detoured to the empty Gryffindor Tower to fetch it from his trunk, taking the stairs at a jog and sliding down along the railing in a long spiral to the common room. With everyone at the Feast, the common room looked lonely, with its cheery fire falling low and the furniture all waiting for occupants. Harry paused long enough to note Scabbers had escaped from his cage again. The girls always seemed to be taking him to play and forgetting to put him back. One of the cats was going to gobble Scabbers up, if they were't more careful-- or maybe that snake Harry had heard in the wall. He'd nearly forgot about the snake. He gave the room a cursory sweep, and thought he spied something moving in the shadows, but when he inspected more closely there was no sign of life. He left it for the moment. Scabbers would turn up when he was hungry again.

With his cloak it was no especial difficulty to sneak out the front doors and around the castle for the stables. Hagrid's bonfire was a jolly blaze by now, and a small group of professors had joined him by it, sat on crates and sharing around a flask of something that was probably stronger than pumpkin juice. Professor Burbage, the Muggle Studies instructor, was giggling into her cup uncontrollably, but when Flitwick unwrapped a sweet and popped it in, he joined her in high-pitched hiccoughs, so it was probably Zonko's trick candies. The Weasley twins had had a whole bag of it confiscated on Tuesday. Professor Sinistra took one too, and howled theatrically at the bright full moon, egged on by the laughter of her fellows. Whatever humour Harry found in their antics died.

There was a light glowing in the upper eaves of the stables. Harry shucked his cloak as he let himself in the gate, swinging it closed behind him and heading for the ladder at the far end. A newborn thestral-- Harry wasn't at all sure how they were born, but it was very small and hadn't been in that stall before, so Harry presumed it was newly foaled-- accepted a stroke to its soft ears. It had skin like a chihuahua, hairless and loose over its bones, but it lapped at Harry's hand with a rough tongue and settled back into the hay with sleepy eyes to be nuzzled by its mother. Harry climbed the ladder til his head was just beneath the loft, and gave himself a deep breath for strength.

'Remus?' he called out. 'Are you there?'

A footstep heralded Remus's arrival, before a face peered over the edge and a hand offered itself. Harry grasped it, and climbed over the ledge. Remus let him go immediately, and Harry brushed at a bit of hay dust on his trousers, wondering where to begin.

'It's funny you've got such a pretty loft now and you're still eating beans from a hotplate,' he blurted, and winced at himself.

It broke the tension, though. Remus smiled. 'I like beans,' he said. 'And you're missing your supper again. Sit down.'

Harry draped his cloak over the back of one of the elegant chairs. The seat cushions were soft as down pillows and nearly swallowed him up as he settled. The light of the chandelier was soft on the vivid white of the tablecloth, but much of the plateware had migrated to a shelf to make room for Remus's books. He had three open on the table, and another two on the bed, and a few more scattered about. It reminded Harry of his office at Crowhill; a scholar's haven, littered with imagined worlds. Harry looked at the covers as Remus dished him a plate of toast with beans and a bit of crumbling cheddar. Despite his nerves, Harry took a hungry bite. Sir Nick's Death Day hadn't affected his appetite too much, evidently.

Remus settled in the chair across from him, dropping a fine linen napkin into his lap and pouring himself a glass of wine. His shirt was, Harry noticed, open at the collar, unusually so. Silvery scars criss-crossed his chest like tendrils of ivy, crawling across his skin. Harry tried not too look too obviously, but it didn't seem an accident he was suddenly noticing this. That Remus was allowing him to.

'Are you all right?' Harry asked, pushing beans across the gold rim of the plate with his knife. 'After... after.'

'Yes. Thank you. It's never easy, exactly, but it was better this time.'

'Because of the other ones here?'

Remus nodded slowly. 'Moral support, I suppose. It's a solitary curse, most of the time. But I've been very lucky in my life. I had Sirius, and your dad and Peter as well, when we were students here. And, sometimes, people like Mrs Halliday, as they pass through.'

Harry drank deeply of his water glass, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and then on his napkin when Remus pointed to it. He twined the cloth over his knuckles. 'At Crowhill... everyone at Crowhill knew you were ill. We just thought it was...'

That landed. Remus nodded again. 'I heard some of those rumours. I even started some of them, to cover the truth. I should have realised. I'm sorry, Harry. I really never meant to deceive you.'

'I never asked.' That was not good enough. It was hard, and his words felt inadequate, but Harry forced himself along. 'The night when Grandda had the stroke-- the night when Colin Creevey was petrified-- I was just upset and I shouldn't have been upset with you.'

'That's completely understandable.'

'Will you please just yell at me?' Harry demanded. 'I was horrid. You should punish me.'

A startled expression flickered over Remus's face. 'How would you prefer to be punished?'

'That's not how you do it.' Harry stabbed his fork at a corner of toast, crunching it flat. 'You give out lines or detention or make me scrub cauldrons or something. Something awful so I'll learn not to do it again.'

'Well, I haven't any cauldrons, and you didn't misbehave in class, so lines and detentions are unsuitable.'

'I mean it, Remus. You can't always let me have my way. Stop smiling! You should be upset, you should tell me off-- if I'd done that to anyone else you would.'

'You wouldn't have done that to anyone else,' Remus said.

'Doesn't that make it worse that I did it to you?'

'I have done things that make it difficult for you to trust me, that much is true.' Remus leant over the table on his elbows, eyes low as he considered his words. 'You need people about you you can trust without question, and I understand why I'm not one of them--'

'Not because you're a werewolf. I barely know anything about werewolves but that's a stupid reason not to trust someone.'

'That just tacitly confirms there are other, better reasons,' Remus murmured. 'And the fact that I still can't tell you everything you might wish to know is one of them. There are things-- there are things I've done, things that go back to the war, to before the war even, and you're not the first Potter to stop trusting me implicitly. I couldn't explain it all to James, either, and I can't ask you to believe that it tears me up inside not to be able to tell you every truth I can when all the evidence you have is silence and empty promises. I'm trying not to repeat my mistakes, Harry, I'm trying to be as honest as I can with you, it...' He reached again for his wine, but paused with it at his lips, and stared into it instead as if he could divine something terribly important if he only wished hard enough.

'It near killed me to realise they'd gone under Fidelius without telling me,' he said abruptly. 'And again when I realised Sirius had switched with Peter because he thought I was the mole. Your mum and dad died thinking I might have betrayed them. It flays me, Harry. And then I drove you away with the same bloody-- if it were only that I am a werewolf, yes, that would be bad enough, but there's no fault in that. It's what I've done with it that matters, and that's what you ought to know, so you can decide whether or not I really can be trusted.'

Harry's dinner was forgotten, his fingers tight on his silverware. 'What do you mean?'

Remus pushed back his chair. He went to the bed, to pull a trunk from beneath it, and from the trunk he removed a book from the bottom. But when he brought the book back to the table, it proved to be a clever concealing place, the pages carved out to hide a small wrapped bundle. Remus set that bundle on the table between them, closer to Harry, so Harry carefully set aside his knife and fork and reached for it. He folded back the cloth to reveal a necklace-- a leather cord and a bit of wire that wrapped about a pendant. A gleaming white fang with a wicked point.

Harry might never have seen a wolf, but it didn't take much imagination. 'What is it for?' he asked, withdrawing his hands into his lap, subdued.

'A talisman. A way of identifying my allegiance. Or the allegiance I pretended to have.' Remus took up the cord, threading it through his fingers. 'When I was about nineteen, twenty, I was very ill. Ailing. Dying, bluntly.' He rubbed a thumb over the point of the tooth. 'The Wolfsbane Potion had only been invented a few years earlier. It wasn't very safe, originally. I-- do you know this part already?'

'Cedric told me some,' Harry admitted. 'It's a poison.'

'Yes. Don't ever try to take it-- even a sip could kill you. That's very important, Harry.'

God. Snape knew. Snape had been near panicked, when he'd thought Harry went about sipping out of all of Remus's potions at home. Harry fell into a scowl, til he belatedly realised Remus thought it was aimed at him. Harry shrugged awkwardly. 'Go on.'

'Well.' Remus had lost some of his momentum, and it took him a minute to work back up. 'I was very poorly for some time, because of it. There's not many healers who will treat werewolves, because of the danger-- you saw that unfortunate business at Saint Mungo's. But at the same time this was happening, the war was beginning. Voldemort was gathering allies and beginning his raids across Muggle country, and one of his earliest victories was an alliance with a prominent werewolf called Greyback.' Remus wet his lips, and finally took a harsh swallow of his wine. 'I knew Greyback well. He was the one who turned me. I was a child-- just turned four. I've never had the full story from Da, but it was some grudge between them. Greyback hunted us down in Wales, and took his revenge on me. It broke my mam, slowly. That was the worst of it. But I was one of the lucky ones; my parents didn't disown me, or waste our lives chasing some mythical cure that would kill as soon as heal. And there's worse even than that: some can't bear what their loved ones become, and there's no penalty under the law for mercy-killing the cursed.'

'That's horrible,' Harry breathed.

'In the years after he bit me, Greyback became something of a notorious mercenary. He'd bite for gold. Voldemort bought him off with something even better-- the promise of a new world order, with Purebloods at the top and the monsters their favoured right hand. I'm telling you all this about Greyback because he's the reason, you see, that I lost your parents. By the time I was twenty, and dying from the Wolfsbane, there was little hope or help for me, except for one thing. Freeing myself completely from the potion and going wild under the moon. And I knew that it would work, because... because I'd done something very like that, here, at school. You see, Sirius and your dad, and Peter, they'd already proved it would work. When they had learnt what I was, they became Animagi. Werewolves won't try to bite animals, only humans. We would play out in the Forest all night, romping and adventuring, and it kept me from attacking myself with bloodlust.

'And Dumbledore knew. How, I'll probably never find out. Oh, I doubt we hid it very well; boys and their secrets are like a klaxon and a blazon at once, though we certainly thought we were the cleverest students of all history. But as I lay dying, Dumbledore came to me. He told me my only chance at survival lay in going back to what we'd done before, at Hogwarts, in letting my human body recover and not resisting the werewolf, to prevent it turning on me. But my friends couldn't be with me every moon. They were soldiers in his war already, and they served their own mysterious roles. If I was to live, I had to go to the only people who could help me through the moon. Other werewolves. And in those years, that meant Greyback's pack.'

It was a lot to take in. Harry did his best to follow the thread, but at that he was sure he'd missed something important. 'Dumbledore asked you to go back to the man who'd bit you?'

'If I've ever been ambiguous in my reservations with Albus, that's why. He was correct, Harry-- both in that it would save my life, and in that it could be extremely useful to position me with a man at Voldemort's right hand. But never mistake it for easy. He asks a lot of his soldiers, Dumbledore, and even choices made freely and in full agreement with his stratagems can become heavy burdens over time. And I never wanted those burdens to fall on you. You will have burdens enough, just living with what's already befallen you.' Remus wrapped the fang away, closing the book about it, and trapping it between his hands til his knuckles whitened. 'And sometimes I fear all I've done in hunting you down to be near you is bring those burdens with me. But I don't want to fail you the way I failed your parents. The way I failed Sirius. You are too important to me, Harry. You are too important to the world.'

That had Harry squirming in his chair. 'I'm not important like that,' he mumbled.

'But you are. For what you have already done, and for what you're doing even now-- for showing the world that compassion is not at odds with victory. It matters, that you've let Sirius adopt you and the Potter legacy. It matters, that you've allowed me near you. It matters that you've friends who are Pureblood, half-blood, Muggleborn. It matters that you don't fear the Muggle world and you don't just accept the Wizarding World with all its faults-- that you challenge things, and question things, and care about the answers. That you care about people like Hagrid and goblins and house elves, not just wizards. Harry Potter just sat through a lesson about werewolves and didn't condemn them.' Remus smiled jaggedly. 'I think Nicolas Flamel was right about you. You are a uniter, Harry, just by being yourself.'

Nicolas Flamel. The Philosopher had called Harry a Diamond Soul. Harry hadn't much understood what it meant, but Mr Flamel had been convinced of it, and he'd said, too, that Harry would be a great wizard one day. For the first time, Harry thought he'd an inkling how he might do that. It was an awfully big responsibility-- but, too, it was an awfully big relief, because Harry didn't know how to be anyone else but himself.

'I think I have to think about that,' he said, feeling his cheeks heat.

Remus nodded. 'I know. I don't mean to put too much yoke on your shoulders. If anything, I hope it frees you. You're allowed to be a boy, you know. I just happen to think you're an awfully good one.'

'Thanks. I think.'

Remus's smile was a little more real, this time, and lingered longer. 'I hope you've got someone at the Feast to save you some sweets,' he said then. 'You shouldn't miss out.'

'Ron will.' That reminded him of his purpose in coming. Harry took another bite of beans, though they'd cooled and weren't as appetising. 'Remus... Well, you see, we didn't actually go to the Feast, any of us Knights. Sir Nick invited us to his Death Day party.'

'Ah, I'd heard he'd had a anniversary.'

'Five hundred. We didn't feel we could turn him down, he was quite excited to have us.'

'It's a high honour, you know. Those who've been dead a very long time tend to lose their connections to the living. I don't believe I've ever heard of Sir Nicholas inviting school children to his parties before, and he's been at Hogwarts over two centuries.'

'Oh. Well, it was very-- unique. But that's what I meant to ask about. We saw a ghost there who looked just like Sirius.'

Remus arched a brow at this. 'Like Sirius? With or without the bed-head and the preference for motorbike leathers?'

'Without. Really though, he did look an awful lot like Sirius, almost exactly, but younger. Sir Nick says he's never given his name, and he's been around for a few years. I tried to talk to him, only he disappeared.'

Something flickered in Remus's face. A hint of recognition, maybe. 'Younger than Sirius?'

'A few years, maybe. He was all over wet and muck.'

'And he-- no name?'

'Apparently it's impolite to ask questions between ghosts. It must be weird if they never ask anything, only tell each other what they already know.'

'We shouldn't judge other's cultures without empathy,' Remus said absently. 'Oh,' he said then. 'You were joking.'

Harry couldn't help it. He grinned. 'Yeah.'

Remus finished his wine. 'You know, we really should utilise this time better. Everyone will be at the Feast and the bonfire for at least two more hours. It's the perfect time to sneak into the belfry.'

'What's in the belfry?'

'A set of undershorts from every Headmaster dating back to the seventeen hundreds. Your dad was responsible for both Dippet and Dumbledore.' Remus looked at Harry very soberly. 'You know Dumbledore loves a good polka dot.'

'I think I have to see that.'

'Shall we?'

Harry pushed away his half-eaten beans. Remus turned to lift a coat from the peg, but stilled, startled, when Harry hugged him. The stiffness fell out of his spine. He rested his chin on Harry's hair.


	12. Filaments of Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which Supposition Meets Opposition._

_'_ The best mice are in the human dwellings,' the snake went on, ignoring Harry's sigh. Mice were her favourite topic of conversation, and once she got going she would not be derailed. 'A fat baby mouse is much tastier than a stringy older mouse, but you do have to eat more of them to make a good meal of it. Rats are bigger than mice, but not as savoury.'She flicked her tongue at Scabbers' cage. 'I haven't had any rats since I came to this place. I should try one for comparison.'

'No,' Harry told her, glancing back to be sure Scabbers was safe within his bars and well away from the snake's habitat. Scabbers seemed to know he was on the menu, and squeaked as he burrowed for safety beneath his layers of shredded  _Daily Prophet_ s. 'Please don't eat people's pets.'

'You are fond of this word. What is a pet?'

Harry scratched his neck, considering that. 'A pet is sort of... a pet is... a pet is an animal you keep and feed and treat specially,' he said at last. He'd never had one, unless he counted the brief months he'd fed Padfoot at Crowhill, before he'd known Padfoot was Sirius Black and not really a dog in need of an owner. Then again, he hadn't really considered the dog  _his_ \-- more like an unusually furry friend who turned up in need of sandwiches and a good scratch round the ears.

The snake curled in loose rings atop her favourite rock, directly beneath the heat lamp that kept her toasty warm. 'I am a pet?'

'Not as such,' Harry assured her, guessing this conversational track would trend southward if he didn't stop it. 'You're more a... mascot.'

Her flat brown head poked up as she raised herself, preening toward the glow of her lamp. 'Mascot,' she mused. 'That word is more majestic. I like it. What does it mean?'

'Sort of, someone who symbolises something? I think. You're the mascot for our Charms class because everyone admires you so much.'

She was most definitely preening at this carefully chosen praise. 'I shall be your mascot then,' she conceded generously. 'Are mascots also treated specially?'

'Very specially.'

'Then I would like a pet.'

'To keep,' Harry reminded her, 'not to eat.'

'You did not say how long I had to keep my pet.'

Harry could rather understand how snakes had come to be associated with Slytherin. They shared a certain dedication to the letter of the law-- it was far easier to slither out of words if one were careless constructing them. 'I have to go to Transfiguration,' he said, rising and dusting his robe. 'Oh-- I nearly forgot. Do you ever hear another snake in the castle? I think there's one roaming about in the walls.'

'Someone's pet?'

'Maybe. I dunno. He called himself Hunter-Killer-Striker and he said he hasn't heard from his master in a long time.'

'It should not come to my place,' she said, hissing a little temperamental warning. 'This is my place. And my mice and my heat and my rock.'

Harry grinned, glad she wouldn't understand he was laughing at her. Her territoriality was funny, though, considering her original-- vocal-- discontent with Hogwarts. 'If I hear it again, I'll warn it.'

Their session of doubles Transfiguration with Ravenclaw seemed to have been designed specifically to put Harry in a mood. Though he didn't take failure quite so personally as Hermione, he didn't especially enjoy being made to feel stupid, and he felt more and more stupid the longer the term went on. Their current assignment was to Transfigure a living creature into an inanimate object. Harry had shared Neville's toad Trevor the first session, but had decided Percy wouldn't mind him borrowing Scabbers for additional practise-- the rat had already been through several rounds of this assignment, passed from Percy to the twins a year later. Hermione had brought Mrs Norris-- the evil cat delivered a few scratches to Ron when he got too close, and did not at all appreciate being turned into a teapot, her tail curled into the handle. It was as well Hermione succeeded nearly immediately and could spend the rest of class cossetting her new pet. Ron got Errol the owl into the shape of a large stone urn after half an hour of furrowed brows and sullen groans, though it was a suspiciously feathery result. Trevor the toad finally morphed into a ribbiting green shoe. Harry's frustrated glances took in the Ravenclaw side of the room and found desks piled with Transfigured pocketbooks, globes, a chalk eraser, a mobile phone-- Harry knew the girl who'd produced that from his Muggleborn Orientation course the previous year, and she was having a devil of a time explaining herself to McGonagall-- and one extremely smug boy who'd Transfigured his goldfish into an exact copy of his textbook, earning him top marks. Harry was the only one still sitting there with a rat on his desk. Scabbers was so bored with it he'd buried his nose beneath his little paws for a nap.

'All right, Potter, let's walk through this,' McGonagall said. 'And please stop chewing on your wand, that is most inappropriate.'

Harry removed the tip of his mum's wand from between his teeth. He wasn't biting hard enough to mark it, but he'd learnt the hard way that chewing on quills produced a very unpleasant mouthful, and he needed something to stop him grinding his jaws. 'Yes, Professor.'

'Circular swirl,' she said, guiding him through it as if he were a first year, her hand on his, 'a good sharp angle up, and very firm on the downswing. "Fera Verto".'

' _Fera verto,'_ Harry said, and Scabbers's long nude tail gave a little twitch, but he manifestly did not turn into a walkman, as Harry was very much hoping he would sometime before the bell.

McGonagall had been teaching for a long time and she was not one to admit defeat. 'Again,' she prompted him.

Harry's molars met with a click. He swung his wand, flicked it, and said firmly,  _'Fera verto_.'

'Fehr-rah-VAIR-toh,' McGonagall corrected.

Harry tried again.  _'Fera VERto.'_ His downswing was so firm he accidentally bopped Scabbers on the rump. Scabbers squeaked at him and tried to do a runner. Neville caught him going off the edge of the table.

'Stay behind, Potter,' McGonagall sighed, and finished her walk to the chalkboards, where a swish of her wand sent the chalk to scribbling their homework assignment. 'Essays due next class. Finish the reading through Chapter Four. Next week we'll work on-- yes, Babbington, if you wait long enough the spell will fade and the Transfiguration will reverse itself-- but as I was about to say, next week we'll work on the cancellation key, so wise students will spend the weekend perfecting their Transfiguration in order to have something to reverse.'

Harry scowled, knowing that barb was aimed at him. He stuck Scabbers back into his cage and slammed his book closed.

'Would you like us to wait?' Hermione asked, eyeing him sidelong and judging the likelihood of his temper exploding before she could get away.

'No.' Harry was sure he was in for another scolding from McGonagall, and preferred no witnesses even to sympathetic ones. 'I'll catch you up in DADA.'

'Potter,' McGonagall summoned him on cue. 'Up front, please.'

He tried not to shuffle his feet and slouch, attitudes which had lost him points with his Head of House before. Still, he was feeling mulish and inclined toward what Remus called 'the Not-My-Fault-ism which so plagues your generation'. It wasn't for lack of trying he was failing! He tried in Potions too, no matter what Snape said. And he did get most things right, it was just some things that didn't make any sense to him. Like why anyone would need to Transfigure a rat into a walkman or a cat into a teapot or anything, much less why anyone would want to drink out of a transformed cat.

McGonagall stood putting her papers in order at her podium, closing a fine leather portfolio over them and folding her hands atop that. She peered at Harry overtop her spectacles, silent for longer than Harry expected, and he did shuffle, then, one foot to the other as he waited for the shoe to drop. Points, he thought. Detention. His teeth were grinding again.

'I'm assigning you a tutor from one of the upper years,' McGonagall said.

Harry blinked. That wasn't half so bad as he'd been expecting. 'Hermione Granger helps me, Professor.'

'Miss Granger has a good grasp of the subject, certainly, but she is only slightly ahead of you in experience and knowledge. Older students tutor younger because they have completed your course already with good marks and have advanced considerably beyond these elementary spells.' She sat herself at her desk, and contemplated Harry for a long minute. 'Have you had any news of home, Potter?'

'Home?' Lyall, that meant. 'No, ma'am. I think he's still at Saint Mungo's. Sirius is with him as much as he can be.'

'I'm pleased to hear that. Black could use a bit of steady responsibility.'

'He's sitting the Wizengamot,' Harry defended his godfather. 'He's voting and everything. And sponsoring Duelling Club.'

'Peace,' she said, raising a hand to fend him off. 'You're correct, of course. Still, I never thought I'd see the day-- Sirius Black, adult.' She smiled. 'He was a handful and a half, you know, but he was most definitely memorable. That's Percy Weasley's rat, isn't it?'

'Scabbers?' Harry checked over his shoulder. The cage was still sat by his rucksack. 'I'm watching Scabbers for Percy while he's-- gone.'

'I hear you spend more time than might be wise in the stables with Professor Lupin.'

Harry had rather thought that secret was better kept. It wasn't just the twins and Cho Chang who knew the Knights were up to something. He stood one foot on top of the other, chewing his lip as he tried to find suitably innocent words to respond. 'I don't like that he's out there all alone.'

Her stern face softened at this. 'That's kindly meant, Potter, but not your responsibility, specially if it pulls you away from your schoolwork. You seemed less burdened at the start of this year, Harry, and I was very glad for you. But you're starting to fall back on old habits, and I am finding myself with the same concerns I had last year.'

'What concerns?'

'You are a twelve year old boy, a second year student, and a wizard in training,' McGonagall said, one eyebrow arched as she told him what he already knew. 'I know Professor Snape is pre-occupied with your magical allergy, but I think a simpler explanation is right before our eyes. You are overstressed, young man, and the strain is impacting your magical core.'

'Stress can do that?'

'Stress, emotionality, even the belief that you cannot succeed will eventually produce proof that you never will. I have seen it all, Potter, in my time here, and you're nothing new. You need to cut something out of your schedule.'

Harry got a sinking feeling he knew where this was headed. 'Not Quidditch,' he pleaded. 'Please, Oliver'll murder me.'

'Quidditch is excellent physical exercise and provides highly useful training in strategy and teamwork. And I want to win as much as Wood does,' McGonagall muttered. 'Not Quidditch. And I'm afraid I can't take any classes off your schedule, not in second year when you haven't any electives to eliminate. I'm speaking of your extra-curriculars, Mr Potter, and I hope you know what I mean by that.'

'It's just Latin Revision!'

McGonagall believed him even less than Fred Weasley. 'I was not born yesterday, under a rock, or with a deficit in natural intelligence,' she informed him. When Harry slumped, she softened-- slightly. 'I'm not asking you to confess all, child. In fact, I'm relatively sure I haven't enough free time all put together to hear the whole of it. But I am telling you to hand over the reins to someone who asked for the stress of it. Professor Lupin or Lord Potter would be excellent choices. Professor Snape seems determined to make himself your mentor. If not any of them, speak to the Headmaster. He was a boy once, you know, and he might have some few dim memories of what it's like to carry the burdens of fame and misfortune.'

Harry squished down with his top shoe until the toes in the bottom one numbed over. 'Professor? What if I don't get any better at Transfiguration?'

'We'll cross that bridge when we arrive at it. If. Eat well, rest better, and stop trying to solve the world's problems, Potter, that's my prescription.' McGonagall rose, sweeping her long red robe into perfectly straight lines to the pointed toes of her black boots. 'And meet your new tutor Saturday at ten o'clock in the Library.'

'Yes, ma'am,' Harry mumbled, and slouched his way back to his desk to collect his things.

He spent his DADA class in a funk, poking at Scabbers through the bars of his cage-- Scabbers was increasingly irate, and finally took to nipping warningly at Harry's incoming finger-- but even that repetitive distraction was better than listening to Lockhart. He couldn't have begun to repeat a single word thundered in Lockhart's bombastic tones during the lecture. Which might have had something to do with his receiving his first ever demerit from the otherwise genial idiot.

'Harry!' someone hissed, and Harry jerked his head up, suddenly aware it wasn't the first time someone had called his name. Lockhart was standing right over him, and the entire class was staring at him.

Lockhart's face drooped in exaggerated upset. 'I've asked you a question, Harry,' he said, as if he could cajole the answer out of Harry if he wished hard enough.

'Er,' Harry said.

Lockhart stood there jugging his eyebrows and twitching his mouth and making strange encouraging motions with his hands, all of which Harry endured helplessly.

'Er, I don't know,' Harry replied at last, unable to bear it a moment longer, and Lockhart heaved a sigh.

'I'm very disappointed in you, old chap,' he told Harry mournfully, and screwed up his determination as if squaring off against a vampire or a giant or whatever it was he'd been bragging about fighting off bare-fisted and shirtless. 'Detention,' he said, and half of Gryffindor's second years gasped in horror.

Harry did, too, but only because he could hardly imagine what Lockhart would think made for an appropriate detention. 'I'm really sorry, I'm just--'

'No, I've made my decision,' Lockhart declared, and turned his back on Harry. 'Return after supper, Mr Potter, and come ready to work.'

'Didn't know he had it in him,' Seamus whispered, looking a bit impressed. 'Way to go, Potter, you pantsed a fluff class.'

'Shut up, Seamus.'

Harry's funk had become a fully blown bad mood by supper. He ate too much steak and kidney pie and treacle tart and knew he'd be drooping sleepily at whatever horrible task Lockhart set him, so he let Hermione badger him into drinking two full glasses of water. That, however, was an even worse idea-- he'd have to pee all throughout his detention, and if Lockhart was anything like Snape, there'd be no breaks for the WC. But off he toddled at the bell, hauling Scabbers in his cage because he didn't have time to nip up to the dorms, sulking his way through the corridors to his doom.

'Harry?'

'Hi, Remus.' Long legs fell into stride with him. Harry kicked at a statue of a one-eyed hag as he stumped past it. 'What are you doing inside?'

'Staff meeting,' Remus answered, before Harry could review what he'd said and the unintended tone in which it had emerged, and wince at himself. 'Where are you off to?'

Harry winced again. He wanted to lie-- Remus wouldn't be happy with him-- but if Remus found out later he'd lied, he'd be even less happy. 'Hold up, if there's a staff meeting, Lockhart'll have to go, won't he?'

'Presumably. Lockhart's not still pestering you about book signings and photo ops?'

Only every other day or so. 'He's pretty pleased about having recommended the post office box for the fan mail, he's been letting up lately. I...' Harry sighed, and admitted the truth. Lockhart would absolutely go blathering about it at a staff meeting, having Harry Potter in detention, where Lockhart could provide a little fatherly guidance to the poor mismanaged lad, set him on the straight and narrow, blah blabbity blah.

'I have detention,' Harry admitted, and kicked a stone urn with a drooping potted fern.

'First of the year?' Remus checked his watch. '12 November. Probably a record clean stretch for a Potter.'

'You're not mad?'

'Between them James and Sirius held a three-century-long record for most detentions in a single school year,' Remus said, amused at him. 'Not that I'm encouraging you to try to best it, but I'm not worried at one or two on a bad day.'

'But you don't even want to know why?'

'Should I know?' Remus asked philosophically.

'I didn't pay attention in class.'

'Lockhart's class?'

'Yeah.'

Remus coughed a bit, glancing guiltily about them, and said in an undertone, 'No real sin, then.' He peered over Harry's shoulder. 'Is that for him? What is it you're carrying, there?'

'Percy's rat.' Harry held up the cage to his face. 'Bill forgot to take Scabbers with Percy's other things, so I'm looking after him.'

'That was nice of you.' Remus steadied the cage, turning it to catch a glance at Scabbers as the silly rat scrambled and burrowed. Remus's steps slowed, and Harry obligingly dropped to a halt with him, not being all that eager to hurry to detention.

'Percy's rat,' Remus said, sounding oddly strangled.

Scabbers was shaking hard enough to overturn his water dish. It slipped out of the bars and clattered on the stones. Harry bent to pick it up, and glanced up to see Remus clutching the cage with both hands, staring at it as if his life depended on it.

'I need to borrow the rat, Harry,' Remus breathed, and abruptly turned and left at a run, the cage wrapped tight to his chest.

'Er, okay,' Harry said, wondering at that. But there were no answers forthcoming, and he was going to be late if he dawdled any further, so he put that mystery with all the others in the 'For Later' bucket and went on his way.

Lockhart did indeed have to hurry off to the staff meeting-- 'Clear forgot,' he told Harry breezily, 'but they wouldn't start without their star player! Now where did I put-- ah, here.' Lockhart got a good grip on Harry's shoulders despite hasty evasive maneouvres, and guided Harry to his office in the back of the DADA classroom, where a very large stack of glossy photographs stood beside a box of flat envelopes. 'Fame,' Lockhart intoned virtuously, giving Harry's hair an overthorough ruffle, 'fame is a hungry beast-- the only monster I cannot defeat, my lad. As your mentor--'

Harry made a little noise, half protest and half swallowed laugh. It seemed he was racking up quite a lot of mentors lately, and not a one of them interested in asking Harry whether he needed them or not.

'--I owe you proper instruction in navigating these perilous depths,' Lockhart went on, mangling his metaphors and petting Harry's head like a lapdog. 'Now, the first thing to understand is that our fans are not to be taken for granted. There's many a celebrity in the Wizarding World, you know, many a pretty face or a hero-of-the-hour, but our fans have chosen  _us_. We owe them the respect and courtesy earnt by that loyalty-- and you want to keep the flame going as long as possible, you know, so we must feed it here and there to keep it stoked.'

Harry peered at the ream of photographs. A dicta-quill like Madam Pomfrey was always using was signing one sheet after the next, a big loopy scribble that dominated the bottom third of Lockhart's grinning visage, GILDEROY LOCKHART, with the t crossed with a star. He pulled a face, since Lockhart was behind him and wouldn't see, but the top photograph frowned at him before it was whisked away to the completed pile.

'I've refined the system down to the smallest detail,' Lockart explained proudly. 'I had a manager in the beginning, you know, but fifteen percent! Pshaw. Besides, no-one will ever be as dedicated to grooming and maintaining your own image as you yourself, and who can you trust more than yourself? It's altogether more sensible to take control and take it early. Now get a good seat here and familiarise yourself with the wax sealer-- antique piece, but it's one of those little things that make the fans feel special, and you'll learn to integrate these little gestures into your personality profile. I use a mid-grade wax with my signature mix of sparkle, as you can see.' Harry did see. He could hardly look away. It reminded him forcefully of the glitter glue he'd played with in his younger classes at Crowhill. 'A little more expensive than absolutely necessary, but it does add to the value of the package-- a signed photograph has minor street value, but a signed photograph with original wax seal envelope catches a finer price, and a brisk market is good for your social standing. Personal messages are seven sickles a word, but every once in a while it's a good idea to do one for free-- ailing mothers, especially adorable children, charity donations, that sort of thing-- less resale value, true, I can see you thinking that, but don't underestimate the importance of being attuned to the fans! They're our bread and butter, if you mean to have any kind of career in the public eye.'

Harry bit his tongue to keep himself silent. He managed a reasonably polite nod that might pass for slavish adoration.

'Is that the time?' Lockhart finally let Harry go, if only to don a long coat and check his hair in one of the many mirrors displayed about the office. 'Perfect as always,' it gushed at him, and Lockhart winked at his own reflection. 'Right you are, you cheeky thing. Right, Harry; one photograph to an envelope, seal it with a bit of wax, and affix the address labels. Shall we say two hours' worth? If I'm not back by then, get thee back to Gryffindor!' he said, laughing uproariously at himself, and swept to the door. 'Oh, and Harry-- as a bit of professional courtesy between two like-minded chaps, I'd appreciate it if you'd make a bit more effort in class, eh? Rally the troops, as it were. The other students take their cues from you.'

That was, just possibly, more true than Harry wished it to be. His first year especially he had noticed that-- lessons he greeted with enthusiasm were treated much more seriously by his classmates, and lessons he disliked went ignored. 'Yes, sir,' he said. 'I'm sorry. I'll... try.'

Lockhart flashed him a brilliant grin. 'I'm off, then!'

Harry picked up a photograph. The Lockhart of the picture was preening, showing off his left side and smoothing a hand down the luxurious brocade of his robe to draw attention to the detailing. Harry stuffed it in an envelope and shoved it under the wax sealer, cranking the handle with a therapeutic thump to stamp the seal right where Lockhart's smirking head would be.

 

 

**

 

 

'Stop that,' Draco said, swatting Harry's hand away from his cauldron just as Harry was about to add sand from the soil of a mature needlethrush harvested at midnight. The grains scattered from the bit of paper Harry had used to convey them, ruining several minutes of careful sorting. Harry clenched his jaws.

'I'll do it,' Pansy told him in that snotty superior way she had of making Harry sound like a kid brother always in the way, and she reached past him to add a spoonful without even measuring.

Enough was enough. 'No,' Harry interrupted, grabbing his lid and slamming it onto his cauldron with a clang. 'You know what, I'm done with this system. You two do your own brews and I'll do mine and you can blame me when Snape gives out the marking.'

'That's not the rules!' Draco retorted, reaching for Harry's lid. Harry held it in place despite the risk of burning his palms on it, gripping the neck of the cauldron as Draco tried to haul it off. 'Snape said-- stop it-- Snape said he'll judge all three potions together--' Harry took a jab at Draco's armpit with a finger. It worked. Draco backed off with half a giggle and a flush of embarrassment, which swiftly turned into a huff. 'Foul play,' Draco scowled.

'This isn't the Quidditch field.' Harry glared at Parkinson for good measure, but she retreated in a hurry, unwilling to risk a tickle. 'Blame me when Snape comes round. He won't punish both of you for me.'

'Oh yes he will,' Parkinson hissed, from the safety of the other side of the table, where she'd fled and was now trying to relocate all her tools and cutting board and ingredients. 'You're our responsibility.'

Now or never. 'Then you're both doing it my way for once,' Harry said, thrusting his nose into the air and looking down it at them as Draco always did to him. 'I'm the one who's getting private tutoring from Snape. And Draco's way isn't working and I thought Slytherins were supposed to be all about the end result. So you're going to listen to me for once and that's that.'

A little pool of silence washed over Harry's lab partners-- and the tables in hearing of theirs-- and it went on long enough Harry began to come over with a blush of his own. He probably looked ridiculous, stuck on his feet with his chin stuck up and still clamping down the lid on his cauldron. But if he backed down now Draco would go right back to walking all over him for the rest of term, and next term too, and the thought of enduring that was enough to keep the stick in Harry's spine. With deliberate calm he sat on his stool, took up his magnifying glass, and measured out enough sand for all three cauldrons. 'It's seven drachms, not a full ounce,' Harry said, at an even volume, and work began to resume about him as the whiff of a fight dissipated. 'Your spoon kit is English troy and the receipt is written in Apothecary's weights and measures.'

'Where does it say that?' Draco questioned, though less chippily than he might have, so Harry answered in kind, as if they were only having a casual conversation.

'Appendix Four,' he said. 'Also, for potions meant to be applied topically, it's better to under-weight, not over, because when we add the burdock juice it's going to thin out, and we'll probably have to add more powdered bicorn horn to keep it properly creamy.'

Snape was loitering nearby to listen to Harry's explanation. He winced a bit at Harry's choice of the word 'creamy', but didn't correct him, and Harry took that for approval.

So did Parkinson, but Draco was made of sterner-- stubborner-- stuff, and he resisted a moment longer. 'It doesn't say anything about more bicorn horn either.'

'This is why Purebloods should do their own cooking instead of leaving it to house elves,' Harry said, and removed his lid to add the sand. He slid a measure toward Pansy and another to Draco's station. 'If you'd ever had to make a sauce stretch for sixty hungry boys you'd understand about adjusting recipes.'

'Sixty boys?' Pansy asked, as she dumped in her sand, and mimicked Harry's careful whisking.

Harry's childhood in a Muggle boys' home was a carefully maintained secret, but Harry slipped sometimes, and slipping in front of Slytherins was a good way to unravel that mystery before he was ready for it. But as Harry scrambled for an explanation, Draco sighed and rescued him.

'They made you cook at your old school?' he said, positively dripping pity. 'When you said "raised by Muggles", I assumed that meant Buckingham Palace or something.'

'How do you even know what Buckingham Palace is?' Harry asked, surprised. Most wizards and witches seemed only vaguely aware there was a government beyond the Ministry of Magic, with some shockingly hazy notions about the queen and Parliament and so on. Ron hadn't even known who the current queen was.

'I have actually been to London,' Draco said, and added his sand without further protest. Harry smiled, and Draco rolled his eyes. 'My father goes to the Ministry all the time. I've been on the Muggle side. I even went to a convention at the Tower of London once.'

'Oh, I've always wanted to see that. All the interesting people were prisoners there-- Anne Boleyn, and Sir Walter Ralegh, Guy Fawkes, and Rudolf Hess, he was the deputy leader of the Nazis. Oh, and Gruffydd ap Llywelyn Fawr, my grandda told me about him. He died trying to escape, he climbed out a window with a rope but fell and broke his neck.' Harry rubbed the lion pin still stuck in his lapel, his triumph at winning Potions fading as he recalled the sorry state of affairs beyond his classroom.

Draco rescued him from that, too. 'Wait, what are Not-Sees?'

Harry exchanged his whisk for a glass stirring rod and readied the burdock juice. 'You can't be serious.'

'No, I know,' Pansy said, venturing back to the proper side of their table and retaking her stool. 'Didn't Professor Lockhart fight a Not-See in Romania? Some kind of underground vampire that's gone blind from lack of sunlight, isn't it?'

'Not Not-See, Nazi,' Harry tried fruitlessly to explain. 'N-A-Zed-I. Nazi. The Germans in World War II.'

'Germans?'

'World War what?'

'Grindelwald's War,' Snape said from behind them, where he was testing Blaise, Teddy, and Neville's potion, 'and there should be less chatter, even if it is educational, and more brewing.' He came to their table then, and took Harry's stirrer without so much as a by-your-leave, and inspected Harry's cauldron thoroughly. He met Harry's eyes. 'Hm,' he said, returned Harry his rod, and swept on.

That was practically high praise, from Snape. Bolstered, even a little jubilant, Harry hummed to himself as he stirred.

 

 

 

McGonagall had told him not to meddle with things, but Harry still took a trip to the stables that evening after dinner. Remus had never returned Scabbers, and Harry was awfully curious what had been so urgent.

Sirius was there, and not wearing very much, which occasioned some lame and stammered excuses that Harry politely pretended not to see through. They had a brief chat about the make-up of the Gryffindor Quidditch team-- Ginny had made the team as a second-string player, but Ron hadn't, and they still weren't speaking to each other-- and then a more serious exchange about Lyall, who had been moved to a long-term care ward and spent most of the time asleep, only to ramble with delusions when he was awake. 'Lectured me through the entire orientation course for new Wizengamot members,' Sirius said. 'That was helpful, actually, even if he did think I was Grand-père Pollux.'

'But he's getting better?' Harry asked.

Sirius and Remus exchanged a hesitant look. 'Physically, he's stronger,' Remus said at last. 'And the sleeping is good for him. He's eating more when he's awake now. All good things. But mentally...'

'Can't they fix his mind? Aren't there spells or potions or something?'

'Magic can heal a lot of things,' Sirius murmured, frowning down at Remus's hand clasped in his. 'But the mind is really complicated. Saint Mungo's has the best healers. If they can help him, they will.'

'Could I see him?'

'You'd just be watching him rest.'

'Maybe you could write him a letter,' Remus suggested, catching Harry's downcast look. 'Then when he's awake, he'll know you're thinking of him.'

'All right,' Harry agreed, sensing that was the best he'd get. 'Anyway, I just came to get Scabbers.'

'Scabbers?'

'Percy's rat.'

'Who's Percy?' Sirius wondered. 'Percy Weasley?'

'I'm taking care of Scabbers for Percy while he's-- away. What did you need to borrow him for?' he asked Remus. He'd been mad with curiosity about it.

Remus raised his eyebrows. 'I'm sorry, I'm not sure what you mean. Borrow Percy's rat?'

'Wednesday evening, you said you needed to borrow Scabbers and you ran off.'

'I...' Remus smiled awkwardly. 'Harry, I'm sorry, I had a staff meeting Wednesday evening, I didn't even see you.'

Harry was taken aback by this. Why would Remus lie about it? 'This isn't some business about Scrimgeour?' he said uncertainly. 'You don't have to tell me what it is, I just need Scabbers back.'

Remus spread his hands, inviting Harry to look about the loft. 'I haven't any rats here, Harry,' he said. 'Leastwise none belonging to students, though Hagrid does use rats as training treats for the thestrals.'

If a thestral had eaten Scabbers on Harry's watch that wouldn't go over at all well with Percy. But that was still an awful lie and Harry had no idea how to react to such a blatant untruth. 'I thought we were past doing this,' he said. 'I thought you were going to tell me the truth whenever you could.'

'Harry,' Sirius told him off in a bark.

'It's all right,' Remus said, though he looked cut by that, sitting back in his chair with his shoulders gone tight. 'I am telling the truth, though, I promise.'

'Like you told the truth about the book?'

'Which book?'

'I can't believe you,' Harry cried, thrusting to his feet. 'Why are you doing this?'

'I don't know what it is I'm meant to be doing,' Remus snapped back, and got control of himself with a hard swallow. 'Harry, please sit down, let's talk--'

'I'm done talking with you, you're a liar,' Harry spat at him, and headed for the ladder at a run. Sirius came after him, but Harry judged his jump from halfway down, hit the ground in a roll, and sprinted for the stable gate. Sirius didn't follow him out.

 

 

**

 

 

'I've figured out what to do with the twins and Cedric's girlfriend,' Ron whispered at breakfast Saturday morning, as he served himself half a platter of sausages and four fried eggs and hugged an entire bowl of mushrooms near.

'Am I going to like it?' Harry said, and was immediately sorry. Ron didn't deserve his bad mood. 'What is it, then?'

'The Light Guard,' Ron told him triumphantly, around a mouthful. 'Because You Know Who's a Dark Lord and Knights aren't enough for a whole army, but, well, three new people isn't really an army. But it will be, I bet, because the twins won't be the only ones who want to join up. So those of us who were first and who know everything that happened last year will still be the Knights of Jupiter, but the Light Guard will be people who know enough to help and who'll be your soldiers when you face off against Him again.'

Harry very much did not like it. He very much did not like the idea that he'd need an army for anything, even if Voldemort did rise again like Dumbledore and Snape thought he would. And he liked even less that Ron thought more people would be joining up. And he liked even less than that that he was going to have to lead them.

'So how do we, I dunno, I mean... how do we start this group?'

'The Light Guard,' Ron reminded him. 'I reckon you ought to have some sort of initiation, you know, but it shouldn't be like the oath we all swore. The Knights are going to be closest to you-- your inner circle and your counselors-- but the Light Guard should have membership rules and so on and know how to respond when trouble's brewing. And we'll need a bigger place to meet than Remus's loft, I think. I was thinking about that too, and that should be the first task you set for the twins. They know all sorts of secret places around Hogwarts and I bet they could find us a good space. But Cedric's girlfriend ought to have a task, too, some kind of test, you know, that once they pass they're in. She's a Ravenclaw, right? I think her task ought to be coming up with a way for all of us to pass secrets and notes to each other. We can't count on all being together when something bad goes wrong, so we've got to have a way of warning each other, right? So let her be clever and come up with it.'

It was an impressive scheme, Harry had to admit. Ron had clearly examined all the angles and come up with a strategy that accounted for all details, the way he did at chess. 'But do you really think more people are going to want to join?'

'Why wouldn't they?' Ron paused for a bite of buttered crumpet, getting most of it in and cramming in the last little sliver for a massive chew. 'The twins'll know people and Chang'll know people and those people'll know people.' He swallowed and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. 'Although at first I don't think you should let in anyone we're not sure we can trust. And the oath I think everyone should swear is to not tell professors about us.'

'Remus is a professor and he already knows.' Although Harry had no intention of going back to Remus for more Latin Revision, even if Remus apologised. There was no excusing pretending not to know about the black book, even if he was only faking it so he wouldn't have to explain to Sirius. In fact, that was a worse reason, after Harry had been defending their relationship all term. Sirius had lost everything in Azkaban and it was a horrid repayment to lie to his face. Sirius had never lied to Remus about anything.

'True,' Ron mused. 'How about this, not to tell anyone who doesn't already know about us, until we all decide as a group-- no, until you decide, it should be you-- that whoever they want to tell can be trusted, too. And the new people should have to swear first before they get told anything.'

'I guess so.' Harry mustered a bit of enthusiasm. 'That's a great idea, Ron. Thanks. I knew I could count on you.'

'Course you can,' Ron shrugged, but he was pleased, and munched his way through breakfast with an irrepressible grin.

Harry's Transfiguration tutor was a Ravenclaw named Penelope Clearwater. She was a plain-faced girl with limp mousy hair worn in a tight ponytail that made her ears stick out a bit at the sides. She and Harry used one of the carrels that were usually reserved for older students-- Penelope had had hers for three years, she told him, for her own especial use, except for when she allowed the students she tutored to use it. As long as Harry didn't disturb any of the books she collected there, he was welcome to it. Straight away she established their schedule for future meetings; Harry would see her Mondays and Thursdays, the only time he really had open between Quidditch and Potions tutoring with Snape and his regular check-ins with Madam Pomfrey about his magical allergy and once he started thinking about all the things he had to do, including raising an army apparently, his nerves overwhelmed him and he didn't learn a single thing about Transfiguration that morning. Penelope was very curt with his nonresponsiveness by the end, and clearly thought tutoring him was a vast waste of her time, a sentiment with which Harry very much agreed. He sat picking at his fingernails as she lectured him, and accepted an assignment of extra reading without a murmur, and left no better off than he'd been before he'd arrived.

He had an hour for lunch before he had to be at Quidditch practise, and decided to spend it with Fawkes. He hadn't seen nearly as much of the phoenix this year as he would have liked, but Fawkes always made him feel better about things. Fawkes was an uncomplicated creature, and Harry needed something uncomplicated just now to settle him. Dumbledore had a password for the gargoyle guarding his office, but had set up a special one for Harry so he could always get in, so long as he wasn't interrupting a meeting or sneaking in when he hadn't ought to be. So with a quick 'Licorice Wands', Harry was riding up the stone escalator and letting himself in. The office was empty, though not silent; Dumbledore had an array of strange instruments that beeped or clicked or whirred at all times, and there was a new water clock, and the conversation between portraits of long-dead Headmasters and Headmistresses, and even the sound of the light drizzle beyond the open windows. Harry's footsteps faded beneath the snores of the bird he'd come to see, and he got right up to Fawkes' perch before Fawkes cracked a beady eye to peer at him. Fawkes fluffed up his chest feathers and released a sleepy caw as Harry stroked his crest.

'Hullo,' Harry said, offering his arm so Fawkes could step on, gripping Harry's sleeve with sharp claws. He carried Fawkes with him to one of the leather wingbacked chairs before Dumbledore's desk, seating himself and settling Fawkes on his knee. Fawkes ate a few almonds Harry had saved from his breakfast granola, pecking them out of Harry's palm and occasionally rubbing his cheek on Harry's fingers to solicit a pet. Harry obliged contentedly.

'This year is turning out more and more like last year,' he told Fawkes. 'McGonagall was right.'

'Good afternoon, Harry.'

The Headmaster hadn't come by the main door, Harry would have heard that, but from somewhere behind Harry and to the right. When Harry looked, all he saw was bookshelves, but he knew there was at least one secret entrance-- Sirius had showed them the night of the unicorn murders-- and he wouldn't be at all surprised if there were more. Dumbledore wore a robe of the colour of a red maple leaf, today, and he took the chair beside Harry with a little sweep of the hem over furry slippers dyed avocado green. 'Good afternoon, sir,' Harry said, eyeing them sidelong. Wizards had the oddest notions about clothes.

'Are you doing well?' Dumbledore asked, smiling. 'Term flies faster and faster these days. It seems only yesterday you took an unexpected trip to Cornwall.'

'I think I've got that fixed so it won't happen again,' Harry said, hoping it was true. Dobby wasn't the most stable elf he'd ever met, but he had promised not to do anything radical until called.

'Very resourceful of you,' Dumbledore approved. He folded his wrinkly hands across his belly, eyes twinkling behind the golden rims of his spectacles. 'And how your classes progressing?'

Harry hunched a shoulder. 'No-one's told you?' he hedged.

'I may know a little something,' Dumbledore admitted. 'But by and large I leave the management of students to my staff. There is enough to occupy me otherwise.'

'Oh. Mostly all right.'

'Mostly?'

'I think I'm just not very good at magic,' Harry said. 'I mean-- I mean spells, I guess, I know I'm not awful at the actual magic part. But Snape says I'll never be learned and McGonagall says I don't understand theory and Penelope Clearwater thinks I'm an idiot and probably they're all right.'

Dumbledore nodded slowly as he considered this. 'What was your favourite subject in school?' he said then. 'Your Muggle school.'

'I didn't really have a favourite. I liked history, I suppose. But I wasn't brilliant at anything.'

'I was something of a bookworm, myself. I preferred to escape to the realms of imagination than to dwell in my reality.' Dumbledore reached out to stroke a finger down Fawkes's spine. 'My childhood was not especially happy. We were not well off. Not so poor as I thought we were, perhaps, but I was very resentful of our circumstances. My father was gone from us, my mother preoccupied with the running of our household, and my siblings were too often my responsibility for me to enjoy their company. School was my opportunity to snare a better future, and I was determined to win my freedom.' He smiled at Harry. 'If you didn't experience that struggle, it speaks well of you. You have a great ability to make the most of your surroundings, Harry, and that is a gift that will make you far happier in life.'

'I guess.' Fawkes had fallen back into his doze, squatted there on Harry's knee, and rumbled with a complacent purr as he accepted caresses from his two admirers. 'I don't really know what kind of future I want, I suppose. I know what I don't want.' Armies and having to fight Voldemort again and fighting with Remus and those sorts of things were readily identifiable. But when he tried to picture himself older, as old as Dumbledore, he couldn't. Not even as old as Cedric, really, much less what he'd do when he was graduated. 'I thought maybe I'd be an Auror, like my parents. But I don't really even know what that means.'

'If the not knowing troubles you, I'm certain Professor McGonagall could provide you with the pamphlets she distributes for fifth years during Career Counselling. Perhaps your limited experience in the Wizarding World contributes more to this lack of future planning than any deficiency on your part. It must be hard to plan when you know only a small few of your options.'

That was a nice thought. 'Maybe,' Harry said. 'I'll ask.'

'Then I am glad to have helped, and will gladly help again any time I can.'

'Thank you, sir. Sir...' Perhaps it wasn't his place to ask, nor wise to do so, but Harry followed his impulse. 'You know that Remus is giving the Chief Auror information about you?'

'Yes, and Professor Lupin had also passed along that you were aware of this scheme,' Dumbledore said, smiling. 'You would make an excellent Auror, you know. You have quite the nose for secrets.'

'And you're okay with this?'

'Well, now, that's a question with a lengthy answer.' Dumbledore sat back in his chair, to twist the tip of his beard about his finger. 'Politics,' he said sagely.

Politics was the lengthy answer? Harry waited, but nothing else seemed to be forthcoming. 'Oh,' he replied.

The door-- the proper door-- banged open. It was McGonagall. 'Oh, Albus,' she gasped. 'Come quickly. There's been another attack.'

Fawkes tumbled with a squawk as Harry shot to his feet. 'An attack?'

'Stay here, Potter,' McGonagall ordered, but Dumbledore was already on the move and she was right behind him, and neither noticed Harry dogging their steps down the stairs in their rush.

Snape met them at the fourth storey east wing, at the foot of a staircase that stayed in place when McGonagall snapped out an order to 'STAY' that nearly froze Harry in his path. Snape gave Harry a burning stare, but focussed on his fellow professors. 'The girl is this way,' he said. 'So far we've managed to keep the other students away, but luncheon lets out in fifteen minutes.'

'Is she--' Dumbledore demanded, gripping Snape by the elbow with a face fraught with fear of the worst.

But Snape shook his head. 'Petrified,' he said, 'like the Creevey boy.'

Harry could bear it no longer. He slipped past the professors, evading Snape's attempt to snag him. He dashed round the corner. Snape did catch him, this time, but only because Harry had already stopped dead.

It was Penelope Clearwater. She lay sprawled across the stone, her hairtie in one hand and a compact in the other. Her Transfiguration book had fallen open at her side, notes spilled everywhere.


	13. We've Forgotten This Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which A Clear Conscience Is A Sign of A Bad Memory._

_**PETRIFIED: HOGWARTS TERRORISED AGAIN** _

_**Another Student Suffers Dumbledore's Debilitating Negligence in Atrocious Attack** _

_**by Rita Skeeter** _

_The gravest news was released at a suspiciously late hour last night: another of our precious children has been laid low at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  
_

_The name of the student has been withheld out of deference to her family, who are well known to the community of Whiffershins on Dorset. The dear child, a sixth year in Hufflepuff House, was described solely as an excellent student of faultless intelligence and grace, a most unfortunate victim of the strange and terrible doings at a fortress once described as unassailable-- and now very clearly a defenceless place of immense danger.  
_

_Whatever mysterious force haunts this hall of learning laid low its first female and first Pureblood victim. The girl was found, petrified but thankfully alive, in another of these increasingly brazen attacks, in full daylight. At the site was discovered another message, writ in blood: ENEMIES OF THE HEIR BEWARE, FOR THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. I WILL TAKE ANOTHER ONE SOON._

_'Now the Chamber of Secrets is speculated to be a real place,' said Bathilda Bagshot, renowned author of A History of Magic, who supplied the following comments to the_ Prophet _'s request for information_. ' _Approximately a century or so after the Founding of Hogwarts, we have the first recording of an attempt to locate a chamber within the school said to contain Salazar Slytherin's research and other magical property, including a staff, a signet ring, and a locket believed to contain a lock of hair from his beloved, a witch whose identity he never revealed. Several people have claimed to find the chamber over the years; most of these tales can be discounted, but it does seem likely that a few may have indeed taken artefacts from the chamber, and used them for various, generally nefarious, ends._

_'Pwca, or Puck, the house elf who won his freedom and claimed a large area of the Forbidden Forest as his realm for much of the thirteenth century, was known to sometimes use a wizard's wand, and many scholars now believe this wand may have been one of Slytherin's, though perhaps not his primary wand. At any rate, Puck developed quite the reputation for tormenting travellers through the Forest, and even Muggles got wind of him,' Ms Bagshot explained. 'Artefacts from the Founders Era turn up now and then, and a few have remained in fairly continuous use, such as Godric Gryffindor's hat, commonly known now as the Sorting Hat. Gerta Griffin le Carte Blanche, Gryffindor's great-great-great-great-great-great granddaughter, wrote the definitive history of the Hat-- Gryffindor preserved part of his essence in it, much as we do with portraits, so as to clarify his thoughts through conversation with himself, as he believed no other mind could be his equal. Rather a conceited lot, the Founders. If you ask me, that's best proof of all that this Chamber of Secrets could exist. Slytherin absolutely wouldn't have wanted any inferior hands on his most prized magical possessions.'_

_Assiduous research by this reporter has yielded confirmation that, whether a Chamber of Secrets is real or no, this mysterious Heir is very real indeed. The Heir in question is none other than the Heir of Slytherin, foretold-- forewarned-- by Slytherin himself, whose last words before his disappearance were purported to be, 'I shall return, in form unknowable, but ye shall see that this indeed is my heir, and in my heir shall I be reborn.' Slytherin died without acknowledged children, but the matralineal line continued well into the modern era, and many have claimed throughout the centuries to be Slytherin's natural-born children by various suspects-- everything from Muggle milkmaids seduced by the wizard as he roved the hills of Scotland to powerful witches who claimed to have themselves been the seductress, even to the reaches of imagination such as demons summoned from the Dark for wild debaucheries. Most damning, however, are the reports this journalist uncovered from the most restricted bowels of the archives of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement: an unknown assailant claiming to be the Heir of Slytherin struck Hogwarts once before.  
_

_That's right, readers: in 1943, a student was struck dead, petrified, even as these poor students and Argus Filch have been within the last months. Her name was Myrtle Warren, and her death was covered up by authorities at the time, fearful the school might be closed if the danger were exposed. Myrtle Warren's death was put about as an 'accident'-- a betrayal of the poor girl, whose ghost continues to haunt the school to this day, familiar to any who have attended the school since that dark day as 'Moaning Myrtle', whose relentless tears have driven away any who might have attempted to draw out her story. Headmaster Armando Dippet resigned shortly after that horrible event, taking the secret of poor Myrtle's death to his retirement, as did, indeed, the Chief Auror of that time, under the guidance of then Minister for Magic Leonard Spencer-Moon, who would not reply to an owl requesting comment in time to print this article._

_But a pain-staking perusal of Hogwarts: A History provides one interesting nugget: a sixth year student was honoured with a Special Award for Services to the School in 1943, the only such award granted that year, and the only such award granted without an attending inscription describing what those services were. Those noble deeds might be lost to history but for the other evidence uncovered by this reporter. Comparing the dates to the Calendar of Events in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's records, there can be but one connection. A closed hearing was held two days following Myrtle's death, and its conclusions sealed due to the age of the hearing's subject, but in Hogwarts' rolls a concurrent event explains all-- an expulsion. One Rubeus Hagrid, a third year student, was expelled in 1943 mere hours after this closed hearing... and, as of this publication in 1992, Rubeus Hagrid remains employed at this selfsame school as Gamekeeper.  
_

_Readers, draw your own conclusions._

_What else can we make of the tightly locked jaws of the Headmaster and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, who refuses the press entré into his ivory tower? What else can we imagine goes on but the grossest neglect when only reputation is defended, and not the vulnerable children consigned to his care? It was not so very long ago-- only nine months-- when a madman who claimed to be You Know Who stormed this very school and held hostage Dumbledore himself, the Philosopher Nicolas Flamel, and Harry Potter, who had no choice but to pit himself, a boy of impossibly small years and possessed of even smaller knowledge of magic, against a fully grown and mad wizard intent on the destruction of all we hold dear. And now in the wake of that near disaster two students have been petrified by some unimaginable force and a squib murdered, and no statement has been issued from the source of these dark troubles but that we should trust all is well and under control._

_The readers of this column will suffer no more in silence. We must call upon the Minister of Magic or the Chief Auror to fulfil their duties where Albus Dumbledore will not and release these long-suppressed truths: that Hogwarts' sacred halls have been penetrated again by the Heir of Slytherin, that this Heir may well be connected, even supporting You Know Who, and that nothing stands between our innocent youth and whatever Dark monster now terrorises them but a Headmaster who has, time and again, hired on highly suspicious and devilishly dangerous wizards without disclosing the danger to the Board of Governors, to the Wizengamot, or to the students themselves. Quirinus Quirrell, Rubeus Hagrid-- who else has Dumbledore drawn about him who now poses a threat to the lives in his care?  
_

_'The Aurors have opened an official investigation into these grim events,' said Rufus Scrimgeour, who alone of all Ministry officials contacted for comment replied-- in person, not by owl, and very impressively so, taking the time to walk this writer through all releasable details of this investigation. 'We are installing an official presence at the school for the security of the students and we have already begun careful questioning of anyone related to these attacks, which we will now escalate. No stone will be left unturned. I give my word, personally and professionally, that all appropriate measures will be taken to ensure the safety of everyone at Hogwarts. All staff will be required to undergo complete background checks, and the results will be available to the public, with as minimal redaction as we can safely allow, for full transparency. Though Hogwarts is indeed a private institution, under the domain of its Headmaster and its Board of Governors, privacy must needs yield to the public's right to know. Lastly, I encourage anyone with information about these events to contact the Auror Corps immediately. No lead will go uninvestigated, I give my solemn vow.'_

_Let the example of Chief Auror Scrimgeour stand to Albus Dumbledore-- and, indeed, to Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge-- the will of the people cannot be wilfully ignored! The readers of_  The Daily Prophet _will be watching. Will you be men of virtue? Or will you fail your readers, your constituents, the citizens of Wizarding Britain?_

 

 

 

Hogwarts transformed overnight.

Last year, Harry had become used to the sight of the Order of the Phoenix masquerading as teachers' assistants. There was no masquerading now, however-- the Aurors who flooded the school made no bones about who they were or why they were there. You could hardly turn a corner without coming across a partnered pair in red robes, poking into everything with drawn wands and Sneakoscopes-- Ron identified them for Harry, who wondered what the whirring little balls were and what possible good they could be doing, since they always seemed to be going off-- and other instruments of investigation. Kingsley Shacklebolt and Tonks had returned, but in their official capacity, and apparently under an injunction not to talk to Harry or his friends, since Tonks went mum when Harry tried to ask her questions and took to hurrying off whenever she saw him coming.

Classes were suspended Monday, to give the Aurors time to interview all the professors. The students were confined to their common rooms except at mealtimes, and then the head table was curiously absent its usual complement of staff. Aurors stood guard over them as they ate, two at the Great Doors and one at every window, and Harry was not alone in feeling rather intimidated by their presence. The chatter and clamour of several hundred students eating, gossiping, and studying was nearly entirely quashed by the stern gazes of the Aurors. Fred and George Weasley were mutinous, as could have been expected, but even they tempered their rebellion to mere muttering.

Harry was kept aside after dinner, something that occasioned great curiosity from his fellow students and no doubt fired up the rumour mill all over again, but he knew what the Aurors would be asking him. Sure enough, he was brought to Dumbledore's office, though the Headmaster was no-where to be seen. In his place was a silver-haired man with fierce eyes and a cruel mouth who interrogated Harry at length about what he had seen when he'd discovered first Colin, then Mr Filch, then Penelope. Harry's answers never seemed to be adequate, for the Auror went over them again and again, til Harry was squirming in his chair, squinting against the pain of a headache. There was an odd pressure against his temples, the way he'd felt when Dumbledore used Legilimency last year, and he didn't like one bit what that pain led him to suspect. He kept his eyes low and pretended it was only shyness, or worry, and did his best to protect his secrets.

Like whether he had ever seen anyone on staff do anything suspicious. No, he said. Not since Quirrell. He very carefully didn't think about Hagrid hiding baby dragons in his hut, or Snape sneaking about trying to get Quirrell to admit to his scheme to steal the Philosopher's Stone, or Remus lying about the black book.

Like whether he suspected any of the students. No, he said. He omitted that he'd wondered if Percy could really be guilty. He omitted giving Tonks his memory of finding Colin petrified, and Bill telling him not to give a memory of finding Mr Filch dead, because it could implicate Percy.

Like whether he found it at all suspicious that he himself was connected to each of the attacks. No, he didn't find it odd. He accounted for his presence at each scene, each one a coincidence. No, he didn't have anything else to tell the Aurors, not even the smallest, most insignificant detail he might have considered unimportant.

'Just one more question,' the Auror told him, scratching out lengthy notes with a quill. He dipped the nib in the ink, and paused with it ready above his parchment. 'When you fought Quirinus Quirrell here at Easter, did he indicate, in any way at all, that he might have left any traps within the castle?'

Inadvertently Harry raised his head, and hesitated, trapped himself in the Auror's cold gaze. 'I don't know what you mean,' he said.

'Quirrell had unfettered run of the place,' the Auror said. 'His search for the Stone took him all throughout the ancient foundations. Maybe he found this Chamber, and opened it. Did he say anything to you, anything at all, about it?'

'I don't think so. I don't... no, I don't... think... so.'

The pressure on his head increased keenly. A pained noise escaped Harry as he flinched back, but he couldn't tear his eyes away, caught. The Auror's icy gaze refused to let him go.

Then, as abruptly as if it had never been, the pressure vanished. Harry breathed in gasps, clutching at the arms of his chair, sweat chilling on his chest, his underarms. He wiped his lip of wet with a shaking hand, and his hand came away streaked with red.

'I'll write you a pass to see the mediwitch,' the Auror said dismissively, and hardly bothered to look at him as he handed Harry a permission slip. He was back at work before Harry stumbled out of the office on trembling legs.

Madam Pomfrey was furious. She slammed drawers and stomped on the tile and glared at the Auror who guarded her infirmary, though she was all tenderness with Harry. She gave him a headache tonic and made him lie down for an hour, far longer than was needed and far too long for Harry's nerves. With his headache eased, Harry had plenty of time to worry about what it meant, and what would be next.

'I'll be writing a notification to your guardian,' Madam Pomfrey told him, in tones meant to carry to the Auror watching from the door. 'I will inform Lord Potter exactly what's happened. I doubt he'll take kindly to this gross violation of your rights, your privacy, and your health!' The Auror shuffled on his feet-- he was young, much younger than the Auror who had Legilimised Harry, still with spots on his chin and the sleeves of official robes too long for his arms, but he only quietly agreed Madam Pomfrey could of course notify anyone she liked, within the bounds of her office and her Healer's oath.

'See if I don't,' Pomfrey growled, and petted Harry's hair gently as he picked at his nails.

 

 

 

Classes resumed on Tuesday. The atmosphere was much subdued, even at this nominal return to normality. Even Lockhart was affected, struggling to achieve his usual gusto in Defence Against the Dark Arts under monitoring by an Auror. He kept calling on Hermione, who could reliably supply correct answers to make him look like a competent teacher, and on Harry who always got his spells right. Lockhart knocked into Neville's desk when Neville attempted to practise their jinx, sending Neville's wand rolling to the floor. 'Oops,' Lockhart said airily, kicking it out of Neville's reach, and sparing himself the ignominy of Neville botching it with eyes watching.

Care of Magical Creatures, which always before had been a practical, hands-on affair, was moved indoors to the Great Hall, the only place large enough to hold all the second years. Remus gave a brief and dry lecture about the 'Ministry-approved topic of crup breeding', he murmured, not looking at all at the Auror observing his class. Then he set them to reading in groups and assigned them an outline of the chapter, to be exchanged and marked by their peers. He made no attempt whatsoever to guide their discussion, leaning on the Head Table with his arms folded over his chest and staring, unmoving, out a window.

'I heard he was interrogated by Scrimgeour himself,' Millie whispered. 'For two whole hours.'

Harry and Draco exchanged glances. They alone knew Remus was Scrimgeour's agent. Was Remus reporting on the other teachers? Would Remus himself be in trouble, if Scrimgeour came cracking down on the staff?

'Two hours is nothing,' Teddy Nott whispered back, propping up his textbook to hide his darting glances at the Auror pacing the far edge of the Hall. 'They still haven't released Hagrid.'

'Hagrid can't have done anything wrong,' Hermione said, heatedly but quietly. 'He's the most gentle person I've ever met, he wouldn't hurt a fly.'

'That's because you never saw Hagrid butcher a bunch of chickens to feed baby Norbert,' Ron shuddered.

'Person,' Goyle snorted, giving up his chewing on a sugar quill to guffaw at this. Draco elbowed him in his big gut, as the Auror's head swung in their direction.

' _Person_ ,' Hermione bit out. 'And a wizard, just like you.'

'Are you really a wizard if you're sacked out of school?' Ron wondered then. He defended himself from Hermione's furious glare by hunching a shoulder and leaning away for safety. 'I only meant when they expel you, they break your wand and everything.'

'He can do magic,' Harry said. 'I've seen him.'

'Well he shouldn't be doing, if he was expelled like the paper said,' Draco pointed out. 'That's not just a Hogwarts discipline, it's a Ministry Education Decree. If you're expelled you're not allowed to do magic at all.'

'That's stupid,' Harry said, bemused at this. 'If you're expelled from a Muggle school you just go to another one. And there's other magic schools, aren't there? Remus taught at one in France. And couldn't you just get a new wand? Sirius got a new wand after his name was cleared. And not having a wand didn't stop him doing magic anyway.'

'Anyway, it's the entire staff,' Neville said. 'I heard they talked to Madam Hooch for a really long time too.'

'Madam Hooch? Why on earth?'

'Professor Sinistra was called back twice for more questions.'

'Trelawney, the Divination teacher, she wasn't called at all,' Millie said. 'And she's taken to hanging out by the Headmaster's office hoping to be noticed. Reckon that's the only thing worse than being questioned-- being so unimportant no-one bothers to question you.' The Slytherins snickered over that one.

'Less giggling, please,' Remus warned them, though he didn't bother to look at them, and hardly seemed fussed about it. He didn't bother to assign them any homework, either, and walked out at the bell without a backward glance.

'What's up his shorts?' Ron wondered. 'Aside from Sirius.'

'Ronald Weasley!' Hermione smacked him.

'Grow up, Weasley,' Draco sniffed, red-cheeked, but he was eyeing Harry for his reaction, and he wasn't the only one.

But Harry had none. Remus didn't deserve to be defended, and Harry wasn't going to waste his time. He only packed his bag and left, aware of their stares at his silence, and determinedly ignoring them.

The sight of Aurors crawling all over the school had almost become normal by the end of the week. Increasingly tall tales and a vigourous betting pool sprang up about which professor would be sacked first, how many would be dragged away in chains, and what possible crimes they could have committed to merit a sacking. No eccentricity escaped commentary, and whilst most professors had their defenders, there were very few names that hadn't been added to the chopping block by Friday. Professor Flitwick was uncharacteristically distressed during class, sometimes seeming almost on the verge of tears, and he taught them half a fifth year class before realising he was mixing them up and stuttering through the rest of their real lesson the way Professor Quirrell once had. McGonagall was nearly his opposite: she suffered no fools in Transfiguration, cracking down on any misbehaviour, however slight, and near barking Harry's head off when he failed, yet again, to Transfigure Trevor the Toad into anything. She docked him ten points and sent him to sit in the corner in punishment.

'Oh!' gasped Padma Patil, when Harry's burst of temper resulted in a pop and a squeak-- her blue-chested budgie had just transformed into a model aeroplane with a whirling propeller. It launched off the edge of her desk and into the air, buzzing overhead in wide swoops til McGonagall's snapped command and whooshing wand un-transformed it mid-flight. The frightened budgie gave off a caw and flew up to a perch in the rafters overhead.

'Give me that wand, Potter, before you Transfigure poor Ms Patil and not just her bird,' the professor said through gritted teeth. Harry delivered his wand to her outstretched hand and slouched himself off to the corner to sulk. 'And that's another five points for uncontrolled magic.'

'It was only an accident, Professor,' Hermione tried to intervene, though possibly she was more alarmed at the massive loss of House points Harry had accrued, and not so much on Harry's behalf.

'Accidental magic is for infants and the infirm,' McGonagall said, glaring down anyone else who had a chivalric protest in store. 'Mr Potter is neither-- nor are the rest of you. Now will you all please concentrate on your own work!' she ended shrilly, and everyone bent their head over the assignments right quick.

Harry dreaded Potions most of all, however. He knew, none better, how disastrous Snape's temper was when aroused, and nothing would arouse it like a bunch of Aurors sticking their noses in his business. Slytherin House had united behind their Head, and refused to let any gossip bandy about, but a Ravenclaw prefect heard from the Head Girl who had heard it from a fourth year who had heard it from a house elf who had heard it who knew where that Snape had been interrogated for hours every single night of the week; consequently Snape's name shot to the top of the betting pool for immediate dismissal and probable imprisonment in Azkaban for an increasingly outlandish series of crimes so Dark they couldn't be named. 'I bet he locks up students in the dungeons and practises his potions on them!' went one guess, and 'I bet he brews Polyjuice and impersonates famous actors to get women to go out with him!' went another, but no guess had got anywhere near the awful truth.

Which was published for all Wizarding Britain to read, in the Friday edition of the _Prophet._ It was front-page news, Rita Skeeter's lede dominating the entire top of the page in stark black and white, above a highly unflattering picture of Snape.

_**DUMBLEDORE STAFFS HIS SCHOOL WITH FORMER DEATH EATERS** _

_**Giants, Half-Goblins, Weremen, Oh My: Hogwarts Den Of Questionable Hires** _

Snape was pale as a bedsheet when he faced them down that afternoon. He wore a stark black robe that covered him from chin to toe, and his hair fell lanker than ever flat against his skull, his bloodless lips pressed into a thin line braced against pain. Though he usually liked to make an entrace at the beginning of class, he was waiting for the students as they arrived. And he wasn't alone. As they had been at every other class, an Auror in red robes was present to supervise. The only surprise was that it was Tonks, in her plain 'real' face, looking pale herself and full of pity for Snape. Her hand touched his arm, fingers curled gently about his wrist, though Snape looked as if he could hardly bear her near him and he pulled away stiffly when students filed in.

'Stop milling about,' Snape rasped. 'In your seats, all of you.'

Harry didn't have to be told twice. He settled into place with Draco to his left and Pansy to his right, not missing that the Slytherins were, if anything, even more tense than the Gryffindors. Hermione offered a tentative whisper of comfort to Crabbe and Goyle, who looked positively miserable. Ron gave an awkward pat to Tracey Davis's shoulder. The real surprise was Teddy Nott and Blaise Zabini, who were packed in tight to Neville, both of them eyeing their tablemate with concern. Neville sat with his chubby chin to his chest, his shoulders hunched and his hands clenched to white-knuckled fists on the tabletop.

'Textbooks away,' Snape spat at them. 'Let's see what you nasty little insects have managed to pound through those lumps you call brains. Parchment and ink at the ready, and anyone I see cheating will earn themselves a one-way trip to suspension. Question number one: when distilling hensbane--'

'Professor?'

Harry slid lower on his stool. Surely no-one was _that_ foolish.

Then, he realised-- no-one else was. It had been him.

Snape's black eyes bored into him. 'Potter,' he said, as if the syllables had to wrench their way up from his gut.

Harry's tongue didn't take his mental warning. It went tripping along without his conscious guidance. 'I think it's better for everyone if you just tell us the truth, sir.'

'Oh, you do, do you.' Snape came stalking up the aisle to their table. Their cauldrons rattled on their tripods as Snape slammed his hands to its surface, and he glowered down at Harry with menace and boiling fury. 'The truth about _what_ , Potter?'

Harry swallowed drily. 'About... about whether you were a Death Eater, sir.'

'Stop calling me "sir",' Snape hissed at him. 'One more "sir" out of you and I'll have you expelled, you insolent boy.'

'Severus,' Tonks warned, somewhere behind Harry.

It didn't stop Snape. If anything, it whipped him into a greater rage. 'Well?' he prodded Harry, stabbing out a long finger into Harry's chest, rocking him back on his stool. 'Well? Does the _great Harry Potter_ have something to say to the class? Would the _Boy Who Lived_ like to tell the class all about the nasty Death Eaters who served the Dark Lord he so easily defeated eleven years ago? Would the _Saviour of the Wizarding World_ like to face down one last baddie for the good of us all? Would you like--'

'No,' Harry said honestly. There was nothing he'd like less than to see Snape reduced to this, spitting out self-loathing like black bile for everyone to see.

But Snape was caught up in his own humiliation and never even heard Harry's quiet interjection. 'Would you like to know how I could do it? How I could bend my knee to a madman and how I could dare walk free after his failed war? Would you like to know what I did at His command, what sins I committed in His name, you want to know if I _liked it_ \--'

'Did you?'

That wasn't Harry. The scrape of a stool along the stone floor and the ringing shout had come from behind him. Every head in the laboratory whipped about. Neville Longbottom was on his feet, and that demand, that command for an answer, had come from him.

Snape straightened slowly. Where before he had come stomping, now he glided slowly, his steps almost silent as everyone held their breaths, none daring to stir as he passed them. Snape moved almost languidly down the aisle to Neville's table, almost gracefully, and he came to a halt only a few feet from Neville, who thrust his chin into the air and refused to be cowed though he was trembling like a leaf.

'Did you?' Neville said again, his voice quavering in his throat. 'Did you like torturing people? Killing people?'

Harry stood, but Draco's hand on his shoulder held him back. Not even Tonks was intervening now. They all just watched, frozen in place.

'I could tell you the times were different,' Snape said softly. 'I could tell you I knew no better.'

'But you did,' Neville retorted forcefully. 'You did know better.'

'I could tell you I thought I was justified. I could tell you I gave it up when I saw it for what it was-- an ugly, wicked, small-minded evil from a would-be emperor. I could tell you I didn't see it for what it was til it was far too late, and I was damned already.'

 _'Did you like what you did to them,'_ Neville said.

'Yes,' Snape answered, brutally short and unadorned.

A tear tracked down Neville's cheek. He raised his wand. His grip shook so badly he needed both hands to steady it. And Snape stood there in his path and didn't stop him.

Someone shrieked when the thunderclap of a spell shook the entire classroom. Harry broke Draco's hold and ran for them, and Tonks was dashing in from the other side, but Snape lurched forward with both arms outstretched and wrapped Neville tight to his chest. They fell to the floor together. When Harry skidded to his knees beside them, he found Neville sobbing and clutching at Snape's robe, and Snape holding him just as hard, his face wet and horrible to look at.

'Everyone out,' Snape breathed, and nothing more.

 

 

**

 

 

'Percy was their chief suspect,' Cedric mused. 'At least this has proved he can't have done it. Will he come back to school now?'

'Dumbledore's even re-instating him as a prefect,' George answered. 'He'll be back next week. He's ahead in all his classes so he's taking winter exams early.'

'I can't believe he got a free pass off classes and used all that time to _study,_ ' Fred muttered, spitting out that hateful word as if it offended his tongue. But even he looked happy about Percy's return.

The first official meeting of the Light Guard and the Knights of Jupiter was taking place in an attic storage room the twins had determined was safe, long lost, and well out of the way of the new castle groundskeeper, Reston Cravensworth. Cravensworth was a full wizard, and had been at pains to distinguish himself from the memory of Argus Filch by brandishing his wand at any opportunity. He had given Fred a case of boils in their first encounter, and only a lot of fast talking by Ron and Ginny had convinced Fred not to seek revenge or one-up-manship. The Light Guard would need to keep a low profile, Ron had persuaded him, in order to be effective, and Fred had reluctantly agreed not to poison Cravensworth's pumpkin juice wih anything too embarrassing or public. That Cravensworth was constantly being called upon to clean up strange and gooey messes in remote corridors was not to be pinned on anyone in particular-- specially since one of the twins was always in full view, and McGonagall wouldn't accept any accusation if Cravensworth couldn't tell her with certainty which twin was guilty.

Fred and George had come through on finding them a place to meet, and Cho Chang had come through on her initiation test as well. Her solution to keeping the Knights and the Light Guard in communication was elegant in its simplicity, and something Harry would never have thought of, given his Muggle upbringing. They would rely on the portraits to convey messages, and the portraits could go anywhere in the entire castle, provided there was a frame available to receive them. They had only to choose a particularly trustworthy subject, and Cho had the perfect recommendation.

'Charlus Bilius Harmonicus Wasleigh,' Cho introduced them to the stately elder gentleman who bowed congenially from a tarnished silver frame. 'He's your great-great-great-great-great grandfather,' she told the Weasleys. She counted carefully on her fingers. 'Add another great, I think.'

'Anything for family,' Wasleigh assured them, smoothing his luxurious moustaches, which hung in braids to either side of his freckled chins. 'Most gratifying, to know the line continues in such proliferation.'

'It's gratifying for us as well,' Fred assured him.

The only snag had been the oath. Remus had done the last rounds of it, all the rounds of it, actually, and therein was the crux of Harry's difficulty. He had an attentive audience-- too attentive, all of them looking up at him solemn and eager for any words he had to give-- and Harry faltered. He had never liked even the amount of attention a book report to Reading Class at Crowhill afforded him, and he liked this much less. But he sucked in a breath and gave it his best shot.

'I think I know who's behind it all,' he said. 'It's got to be Remus. He had the black book Dobby told us about, and now he's pretending not to remember any of that. He'd only pretend if there was a reason to. I think the reason's got to be that the book's done something to him.' He did not want to believe Remus would lie to him for any other reason. Maybe that made him foolish, but it was the only palatable alternative. And Dobby had warned him about the book. The book was the root of all of it, Harry was sure of it.

'Professor Lupin?' said Cho, quite surprised. She looked at Cedric for confirmation, and Cedric grimaced and looked to Harry for permission. Harry drew in a deep breath.

'Remus is a werewolf,' he told them all.

George's eyes grew very wide. 'Wicked,' he breathed.

Fred nodded vigourously. 'Totally awesome.'

'What-- what?' spluttered Ron.

Draco and Hermione, who had already known, said nothing. Hermione stared down at her hands, unwilling to comment, and Draco looked faintly disapproving of Harry's decision to tell the others. But Harry hadn't seen a way around total honesty. It had been Draco's own advice, really.

'Werewolves don't petrify people,' Draco said. 'If anything, they eat them.'

'I know that,' Harry snapped, though in all truth he didn't know much about werewolves beyond what he'd read in the Library.

Neville belched loudly, interrupting the momentum of reaction to Harry's revelation. Neville gagged for a moment, got his bucket ready, and coughed up a large slimy slug that thunked into the bucket. 'Gah,' Cedric said, turning his back on it. Hermione patted Neville on the back as he coughed a bit.

'Sorry,' Neville said thickly. 'Professor McGonag--gagggg--' He hurled up another slug. Fred dug it out of the bucket to examine it. 'McGonagall reckons me dad's wand's what made it go wonky,' he finished weakly.

'At least your grandmother has to let you get a new wand now,' Hermione encouraged him. She daubed his chin with a kerchief, wiping away slug gunk. 'I still can't believe you tried to hex a professor.'

'Hermione!' Ron protested. 'Snape deserved it, and more!'

'Oh, that's not what I meant,' she said, flustered and flushing. 'Of course he did. I only meant-- I'm proud of you, Neville.'

'I'm not,' Neville sighed, settling his bucket between his knees and slumping over it. 'Maybe Snape deserved it once, but he's not a Death Eater now. He said he regrets what he did, and I believe him.'

'You really think he regrets it?'

Draco. He was still their only Slytherin member, and had been very withdrawn, since Neville's dramatic confrontation with Snape the other day. Harry hadn't even been sure Draco would come to their meeting; it was like the beginning of the schoolyear, when Draco had been running hot and cold on him, but this was all cold. Draco looked like he'd spent the last few nights in sleepless contemplation of something very difficult he had not yet solved. His lips were chapped and bitten, and his hands were clasped tightly in his lap.

'We talked for a long time,' Neville nodded. 'About a lot of things, really, not just that, but I believe him. Maybe he's not an all good person, but he wishes he were.' Neville paused, cheeks sucking in, and spat out a garden snail. 'And Gran won't have to get me a new wand, because Snape's going to. He said it was the least I was owed, and Dad's wand should be back where it belongs.'

Harry fingered his glasses. He thought he understood a little better, suddenly, a gesture that had never entirely made sense to him. Snape was not a man to whom apologies would come easy. Maybe there were some things you could never really apologise for-- things too big, things too awful. But you still had to try.

George cleared his throat. 'Sorry, but... what's all this about Lupin and a book?'

'Tom Riddle's diary,' Harry said.

'Hold up, Tom Riddle like in the newspaper?' Cho asked. 'The one who got a special award for services to the school, the same time Hagrid got expelled?'

'All I can figure is that this Riddle must have known something about this Chamber of Secrets,' Hermione explained. 'I've tried looking him up in the Library, but they don't carry school records there, so all we really know is that he was a student when Moaning Myrtle-- I mean, Myrtle Warren-- was killed, and that Hagrid was a student then too and he was expelled for something. And since no-one else was killed and they never announced they found Slytherin's chamber, we have to assume Hagrid was somehow connected to all this.'

'Hagrid can't be killing people,' Harry said impatiently. 'Can any of you even imagine Hagrid lying about something?'

'So why would this bloke Tom's diary be dangerous then?' Fred wondered. 'If he was the hero who turned in the baddie? Whoever it was,' he added hastily, seeing Harry's scowl.

'I tried writing to my father,' Draco said. 'He wrote back and told me that if I had anything to do with the diary I was to cease immediately, for my own safety. Whatever that diary is, he's scared of it.'

Neville interrupted with another belch. It was a two-slugger.

'We've got to figure out how to do this,' Fred told his twin. 'Sluggo-Palooza?'

'Sluggo Slimetastic?'

'Sluggoslime Spectacular.'

'Stop it, you two,' Hermione chided them, 'this is serious. And obviously it ought to be Slugulus Supremus.'

Fred and George exchanged an awed glance. They rose to their feet to bow to Hermione.

'We need to find the diary,' Harry decided. 'Again. And this time we need to do something better with it than hide it. We need to figure out what it does, without putting ourselves or anyone else in danger.'

'We should go to Snape,' Draco said again. 'If Neville's really sure about him.'

'I don't think that's enough,' Harry shook his head. 'I think... I think maybe we ought to turn it over to the Aurors. I think this is too big for us or even for the Order of the Phoenix.'

'Well, we've got to find it first,' Cedric pointed out practically. 'Anyone have any ideas?'

George had a ready answer for that one. He cleared his throat, producing a much-folded parchment from his pocket. 'As it happens, my associate Frederick and I have in our possession a very useful map of the premises we currently occupy. Now I know what you're thinking-- a map doesn't help much if you're not trying to go somewhere. But this isn't just a map for to-ing and fro-ing. It's ever so much more, and it's one of our most prized possessions.' He spread it out on the floor, and the Knights and the Light Guard gathered round, peering at it.

'It's blank,' Ron said.

'Only to throw the unworthy off the scent.' Fred drew his wand and wove a dramatic swirl in the air before tapping it to the centre of the page. 'I solemnly swear I am up to no good,' he declaimed gravely.

Ink began to etch into existence from the point of his wand, spreading outward in a growing wave. Familiar, neat handwriting chased lines and tiny figures across the parchment, sketching floor after floor of Hogwarts castle, right up to the attic currently occupied by--

'That's us!' Cho said excitedly, pointing. 'How's it know where we are?'

'Moony, Padfoot, Prongs, and Wormtail, that's how,' George said proudly. 'Our noble ancestors in mischief-making. Fred and I happened to be in Filch's office a few years ago, doing nothing in particular--'

'Nothing troublesome at all,' Fred agreed.

'--and noticed that Filch didn't lock his file cabinet, which is quite an oversight, specially for a man charged with security. Well, we only wanted to help him out, so we go to close it, right, and this parchment just falls into our hands--'

'Likely,' Hermione scoffed.

'Well, jumped, more like,' Fred acknowledged, grinning.

'And sticky-fingers there gets it good and hid til we can examine it more closely,' George finished. 'It didn't take us long to crack the code and figure out how it worked. And Merlin's tit, does it work. The adventures accomplished with the aid of these fine gentlemen, these sorcerors of shenanigans, these masters of misdeeds--'

'That's Remus and Sirius,' Harry interrupted. 'Moony and Padfoot are what they call each other. And Prongs and Wormtail are my dad and Peter Pettigrew.'

The twins fell silent with a snap. George blinked first. 'Bit of a mixed bag, that, to be truthful.'

'Remus did tell me once he enchanted a map. And that he thought Tom Riddle's diary worked the same way as the map.' Harry eyed the map with misgivings. 'The map's never tried to make you... do... anything?'

'Sometimes they suggest tricks.' Fred flipped the map over to the back. Remus's neat penmanship inked in a greeting--  _Hello, Four-Eyes._ 'I think that means you,' Fred told Harry. 'But try to make us, no. It's sort of question-and-answer, really. Generally we have to ask them to get anything specific, and we figured out a long time ago there's loads of things they don't know. And you can overload the map with too many questions and it sort of shorts out. Lots of enchantments break down when they get too old.'

'Maybe that's what's happening to the diary,' Hermione guessed. 'Whatever it was originally, it's malfunctioning now, and that's what makes it so dangerous? It's telling people to do horrible things?'

'That doesn't answer for why they'd obey a stupid book, though.' Harry gnawed on his thumbnail. 'Fred, George, where you reckon a book would hide in Hogwarts? Where Remus would put a book if the book ordered him to hide it and then forget he'd done it?'

'Loads of good pokey places to stash some sensitive materials.' Fred and George consulted briefly, nodding at half finished words like 'D'you think--' and 'Nah, better there--' and 'Rubbish, look--' and 'Mmhmm,' simultaneously agreed. 'Here,' they said, stabbing their fingers down. 'And here, and here, and here, and possibly here, and at a stretch here.'

'There's a couple of rooms that come and go, too,' George added. 'And loads of rooms we can see on the map but can't get into without secret passwords.'

'If the Aurors don't have a map like this, they won't likely find the book before we do,' Cedric said. 'We should keep looking, I think. Harry?'

All eyes turned back to Harry. It was too bad, he considered, that the map didn't just tell them where the Chamber of Secrets was-- but they'd never had that kind of luck. 'Okay,' he said. 'We look for the book. I guess that's the best we can do for right now.'

'All in?' Cedric put his hand out over the map. One by one the Knights and Light Guard stacked their palms over his. 'Then let's call it a close,' Cedric nodded. 'Good luck, everyone.'

 

 

**

 

 

A hand on Harry's shoulder jolted him awake.

'What?' he croaked, scuttling back on his elbows and cracking his noggin on the headboard of his bed. He rubbed the hurt as he searched beneath his pillow for his glasses, and jammed them on.

Remus stood over his bed with a wand lit against the darkness. It was the dead of night, and the pale glow of his wand cast his face in frightening shadows. He flung Harry's duvet back, sweeping a hand over the sheet, and crouching to feel under the mattress. 'Where is it, Harry?'

'Where's what?' His pounding heart began to calm from the scare Remus had given him, only to start up again near immediately. 'What are you looking for?'

Remus ransacked Harry's bedside drawer, emptying it of Bertie Bott's beans and chocolate frog cards and a few spare knuts and broken quills and a used tissue Harry had forgot about. 'Where's the book?'

'Oh, you're not pretending not to know about it now?' Harry surged up on his knees, diving to stop Remus from opening his trunk, but Remus pushed him back with uncharacteristic violence, and Harry sprawled back with a whoof of lost air. 'I don't have it!'

Remus dug through Harry's trunk, spilling clothes and bric-a-brac in a clatter. Ron gave off a snort and rolled over, and Seamus's snores paused for a moment. Remus ignored them and circled round Harry's bed, leaning past the posters to stroke the inside of Harry's bedcurtains, then standing on the edge of Harry's bed to check overtop. He climbed down, breathing hard, and staring at Harry.

'I wrote dozens of notes mentioning a book,' he said, producing a Muggle pad of paper from his pocket and hurling it to Harry's bed. 'And I have no memory of any book, or writing myself notes about one, or anything in those notes. Why?'

Harry's heart was pounding harder than ever. 'I told you,' he said. 'I told you that book was dangerous.'

'What book, Harry?'

'What in Morgana's name?' It was Professor McGonagall. She stood in the doorway in her dressing gown, appalled and confounded in one. 'Lupin? I saw someone pass up the stairs and nearly called the Aurors down on you! This is most inappropriate!'

For a moment it all trembled on the verge of an explosion. Remus's chest heaved, his stare wild, and Harry ground his teeth, wondering for a wild moment of his own if they ought to call the Aurors after all.

Neville sat up, and vomitted up six slugs in a row. 'Ohhhhh,' he moaned, and flopped back in a puddle of slime.

When Harry glanced back, Remus was shoving past McGonagall and down the stairs at a run.


	14. Nobody Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which Jumping To Conclusions Hastens The Finale._

Word was out by Monday evening. Professor Lupin hadn't turned up to class. It had been left to Hagrid to lead the sixth-year hunt in the Forbidden Forest, searching for fifteen rare monsters they were studying for NEWTs. The hunt was meant to satisfy the requirement for both Care of Magical Creatures and Defence Against the Dark Arts, and Hagrid, though perfectly competent for the former, was no match for the latter, specially as it was taught by Lockhart. Sensing an authority vacuum, Lockhart led the group full dash into the Forest, off the carefully proscribed paths Lupin and Hagrid had mapped as safe for underage wizards and witches. Flitwick, McGonagall, and Snape's search party located them an hour after dinner, escorted out of the depths by several armed and very irritated centaurs, who marched a trussed and gagged Lockhart along at the point of a loaded longbow.

Madam Pomfrey declared a state of emergency and despaired over the wide range of interesting new injuries the students had picked up. There was a necrotic nettle infestation-- Alex Morales-- a bad runespoor bite, which really meant three bad bites, since runespoors, Demitry Voorhees learnt, had three heads, all of them well-fanged-- one bad case of shock though no physical injury, that was Jenny Lavoush, who had discovered a hitherto unknown talent in running for her life when she'd tripped into an acromantula nest. The Darwin Award-- a phrase that required far more explanation than it was worth, leaving Ron and Neville gobsmacked over the concept of 'ebo-lewd-shun' and leaving Hermione appalled at the gross oversights in wizarding education-- went to Malachy Ó Conghaile for drinking from a well-signposted and clearly enchanted pool and turning into a donkey. A spotted donkey only capable of speaking in elaborate and inventive insults. Madam Pomfrey put out a call for a specialist with a gracious temper.

Lupin's unusual absence was concerning, primarily because no-one had forewarning of his truancy and not least because, after what happened to the sixth years, no-one else was eager for his class with a substitute. Harry didn't catch wind of it til Oliver let it slip over breakfast the next morning. (Oliver had been on the fateful hunt, and escaped only with a bruised noggin after being boxed by a dwarf who had not been very welcoming of visitors in need of directions.) 'But where was he?' Harry asked, keen on the answer and dreading what he would hear, after Remus's strange behaviour the other night.

'Dunno,' Oliver shrugged. 'Maybe it's a strategy to get a pay rise. Show how desperate things are without him.'

The second years were due for COMC that afternoon, after Transfiguration. Harry lost all appetite. 'I need to go,' he told Ron, grabbing his rucksack and stuffing an apple in it for later. 'Cover for me if I'm late.'

'Wha?' Ron protested, looking up with two rashers of bacon sticking out of his mouth. 'You can't go, McGonagall'll tear you a new one.'

She would. But there was no help for it. 'Lie,' Harry suggested. 'Ask Draco for ideas, he's good at excuses.'

There was enough activity about the castle that Harry chose to forgo his invisibility cloak and just take it at a brisk, purposeful walk, as if he had permission to be roaming the grounds. It worked enough to get him past the Head Boy and a prefect who only nodded at him, accepting Harry's dignified nod in return before they ducked back into their corner to resume their snog. Bluffing it out would only carry him so far, however, so Harry made an effort to keep out of sight as he crossed the grounds for the stables. He hurried past the stalls without stopping to greet the thestrals, who hadn't been fed yet and were antsy when they smelled a human in their midst. He shimmied up the ladder and poked his head into the loft, calling, 'Remus!'

A crash answered him. A tiffany lamp in the corner thudded to the plush rug and rolled. Harry whipped his head about, but there was no-one there. The loft was entirely empty.

'Remus?' Harry hoisted himself over the ledge and ventured in a few steps. The bed was unmade, which was unusual-- Remus was a tidy sort of person, at least as regarded sheets and dirty clothes and bathrooms-- but what was more unusual was the state of the rest of the loft. It looked as though it had been ransacked by a whirlwind. Or a madman in a state. The cartons under the bed had been overturned and left where they fell, books spilled everywhere. The shelf of plates had been torn half off the wall, china shattered into shards in a heap beneath it. The table had skidded several feet from where it had been, beneath the chandelier, the cloth dragged to the floor and the chairs knocked back. The chandelier was still swaying.

'Remus?' Harry did a full about-face, but there was no-where to hide, not even a wardrobe. Just the bed. Harry checked beneath it. He turned again, to look at the lamp that had fallen when he'd come in. There was no reason for it to have fallen, if the room was empty, but that swaying chandelier was even more suspicious, and Harry had the prickly feeling on the back of his neck that meant someone was watching him. Someone was here, bespelled somehow or disillusioned maybe, but here all the same.

'Come out,' Harry began, but immediately shut himself up. There was only one way out of the loft, and if someone were hiding in here, Harry could wait them out. He dropped his bag, took his wand from his pocket and wrapped his fist securely about its length, and parked himself in a crouch over the ladder, one knee touching the rough boards, so he'd be ready to spring up at the first twitch.

The minutes crawled by. Harry flexed his muscles to keep himself limber, forcing himself not to concentrate on anything in particular so he wouldn't miss anything. That was harder than being still, but he kept himself alert, at the ready, taking measured breaths and listening for the smallest sound. Ten minutes. The bell rang, a distant tone, and the breeze carried the occasional bit of chatter or laughter, but that quietened too, and still Harry sat waiting. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. Thirty.

Tiny claws on wood. Harry fired the jinx he'd been holding at the ready on his tongue-- _'Petrificus Totalus!'--_ but Scabbers dodged with a squeak and came pelting right for him. Harry lunged, grabbing at the bald tail dashing between his legs, missing by the merest molecule--

There was a strange _whoosh_ of air rapidly displaced. A hand in his collar yanked him straight off his feet, and then he was airborne. Wind whistled against his ears, his heart was frozen in his chest, and he had only a second's imprint of a figure watching him fall and then he was hitting the hay-strewn dirt and then there was only darkness.

 

 

 

'Potter. Potter, focus. Follow my finger.'

Harry blinked away the haze that clung to his eyes. Dark hair. 'Snape,' he croaked.

'Ew, no.' Hands beneath his neck and shoulder eased him upright. 'It's Sirius,' Sirius said, perching Harry's glasses on his nose. 'And how the hell did a boy who's managed to fly a bloody Bludger fall off a ten foot ladder?'

'Nnnn.' Harry popped several joints on his way to a full seated position. 'Where did you come from?'

'Well, that's a delicate question, but I'm glad you've come to me about this. You see, when a boy and a girl are tied down to the same bed because their mummy and daddy have dynastic ambitions--'

'I meant why are you at school?'

'How's that for gratitude,' Sirius scoffed. 'Oi, Moony, come down here, Harry's fallen! Or did you only show up to screech at him some more?' he asked Harry, hauling him to his feet.

'I didn't come to screech at him.' Harry gave himself a thunk on the side of the head to clear it. 'He didn't turn up to class--' He staggered to the ladder and missed his grab. Sirius didn't, happily, and righted Harry again.

'Moony,' Sirius called again, and climbed the ladder himself, poking his head into the loft as Harry shook the last of his dizziness away and looked about him. The thestrals were all waiting for supper, nosing at the empty troughs in their stalls-- dinner? Hadn't it been breakfast just a minute ago? But it was dark in the stables, but for the light of Sirius's wand disappearing into the loft. Harry went to the gate to check. It was night, and well advanced at that, a wan sliver of moon perched high overhead.

Sirius hit the ground in a thump of boots on dirt, and came running to Harry's side. 'What happened?' he demanded, grabbing at Harry's shoulder. 'Harry, where is he?'

'I don't know,' Harry said. 'Something's wrong. Something's really wrong.'

'Aurors. We need Aurors.' Sirius flung a spell, a blob of silvery light puffing out the tip and fading. Sirius cursed and shook his hands out. _'Expecto Patronum,'_ he tried again, but his voice was shaking, and the result was even more pathetic than before. 'Fuck,' Sirius said, and 'Stay here, in case he comes back,' and took off running.

 

 

**

 

 

'Again,' Scrimgeour said.

Harry rubbed dry aching eyes. 'I don't remember,' he repeated. 'I don't even remember going there.'

Auror Savage sat back with a grunt. 'He's resisting, sir,' he reported with a sneer. Harry shuddered despite himself. He didn't know what he'd done to earn the icy man's disrespect, but an hour of Savage staring into his eyes had produced nothing but a horrible headache and an embarrassing bout of stomach upset that had necessitated a _scourgify_ of Savage's boots. The sour smell of Harry's sick persisted despite the vanishing.

'It is difficult to impossible to break an Obliviation,' Dumbledore said. Again. They were going about in circles, and only the anguish in Sirius's expression prompted Harry to volunteer another try. He desperately wanted to remember anything he could. 'And I must protest,' Dumbledore said, again, 'what amounts to mistreatment of a student in my care.'

'You broke it last year,' Harry said muzzily. 'When Quirrell did it.'

'You were still in a highly suggestible state,' Dumbledore explained gently, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder and shifting so that Harry's view of Savage's cold face was blocked. Harry rubbed his eyes again and fidgeted with his glasses. 'Your experience with Quirrell in an area of considerable magical density, not to mention what we now know of your encounter with the Mirror of Erised and the Philosopher's Stone, all contributed to that success. We do not have such a confluence of favourable circumstances now, and I would not see you hurt.'

'You can't remember anything?' Sirius asked, wretched in his misery, and it near killed Harry to shake his head.

'Just dark,' he said helplessly. 'I'm so sorry.'

'Albus, any clue at all would be more than what we have right now,' Scrimgeour said quietly. 'You know as well as I do that Lupin cannot be lost and at large for long in a castle full of unprotected children.'

Sirius made a strangled noise, a protest that began on instinct and ended in despair. He left his chair in a rush, going to stand at a window with his hands braced on the sill, staring out into the night, his shoulders tight enough to cut.

Dumbledore sighed. 'Fawkes,' he murmured, and the phoenix left his perch with a leap and winged to Dumbledore's outstretched arm. Fawkes transferred from there to Harry's shoulder, nipping at Harry's earlobe, and began to sing softly. Unlike normal birdsong, it wasn't a series of chirps and screeches, and it wasn't like Fawkes's usual nearly conversational chatter, either; it was melodic, a single drawn-out note that soared and fell and drew Harry along with it. 'Good,' Dumbledore said, somewhere very far away, and Fawkes went on singing, that sweet sleepy sound that left Harry floating out amongst the stars, unburdened by cares, uncaring that a hand raised him by the chin and weary blue eyes locked on his and followed him into the dark.

The dark. It was dark. Not just dim, not just black, but a dark so permanent and untouched it was almost a physical thing, a solid heavy thing that pressed Harry flat to the only thing that proved it wasn't a dream. He was alone. Entirely, completely, unbearably alone, he was-- he was... he was, wasn't he? Or maybe he never had been...

_Wake, little one._

'Thank you, Harry,' Dumbledore said, and let him go.

'You're telling me there's nothing there at all? No false memory, no evidence of an hours-long nap whilst who knows what was going on?' Scrimgeour demanded. Fawkes finished his song, and hid his beak in Harry's hair. Harry lifted a languid hand to stroke him. He felt much better, somehow. His headache had almost vanished under the enchantment of Fawkes's music. That was a neat trick. Madam Pomfrey would be glad to know there was something that could help.

'So it would seem,' Dumbledore answered. He did not look nearly so refreshed as Harry felt. If anything, he looked more tired and old than Harry had ever seen him. He sat back in the curve of the wingback chair beside Harry, as if he hadn't the strength to hold himself upright anymore. 'Whatever else there is cannot be recovered.'

'Not good enough. Not good enough, Albus.' Scrimgeour paced, the slight limp of his left leg dragging every step beneath his swirling red robes. He paced before Harry once, twice, again. 'Potter,' he said then, and faced Harry with his arms folded over his head. 'Potter, and no lies, for I know more of the truth than you do-- what did Lupin tell you about the book?'

Harry came alert to this. 'The black book? The diary?' He barely waited on Scrimgeour's nod. 'I know you have to write in it, that it will talk back to you, I know Remus thinks it's dangerous because he didn't want me to have it, and because Dobby warned us--'

'Dobby?'

'The Malfoys' house elf. Mr Malfoy gave Remus the book-- you know that, didn't you? Remus said he'd told you.'

'He did. Not about the house elf.'

'Dobby's been a bother all term. He's afraid of that book, he didn't even want us to be at Hogwarts with it.'

'Us?'

'Me and Draco. Draco,' Harry said, piecing something together then with that strange keen edge still working its way through his brain in the wake of Fawkes' song. 'Dobby was glad when Draco was sent away for the summer. But not last year, which means Mr Malfoy only got the book this year.'

Scrimgeour's eyebrows arched. 'Interesting supposition. But keep your focus, boy. What else did Lupin tell you?'

'Not much else. I don't think he knew much. He said it was only dangerous if you were in direct communication with it, but then he forgot it. I thought he was faking at first,' Harry admitted, mostly to Sirius's back, remorseful now to remember how irate he'd been, assuming the worst. 'I should have realised he wouldn't lie to me. If I'd said something sooner...' Scrimgeour, impatient, motioned Harry to continue, so he did. 'Only he must have remembered something because of us fighting, because the other night he came into my room and he was mad, practically. He said he had written all of these notes to himself about the book but didn't remember writing them. And he didn't know where the book was-- he thought I'd taken it. That's the last I saw him.'

'And did you? Take the book, that is?'

'No. Not-- not this time.'

'You would swear an oath to that?' Scrimgeour probed. 'You would give me the same answer under Veritaserum? Or are you sure you don't want to amend that answer?'

'I haven't got it, I swear.'

'And you don't know where it is now?'

'No. I wish I did. Dobby's right, that book did something to Remus, I know it did. And... and maybe not just to Remus.'

'And maybe not just to Remus,' Scrimgeour echoed, nodding grimly. 'That, Mr Potter, I believe.'

'You think he's lying?' Sirius said from the window. 'Harry wouldn't lie.'

'Harry may not have a choice in the matter. He led us on a merry chase last year, didn't you, Mr Potter?' Scrimgeour tapped two fingers on the edge of Dumbledore's desk, nodding to himself as if he confirmed something long suspected. 'I don't question your truthfulness, my lad, but there are too many unanswered questions from the events this past Easter to turn a blind eye. Quirinus Quirrell, or whoever Quirrell claimed to be--'

'Surely you do not question that, Rufus,' Dumbledore stirred.

'I question everything, it is my job to question everything, and I have a serial lack of proof, Albus, compounding the questions. I don't necessarily deny Quirrell was possessed by some remnant or ghost of He Who Must Not Be Named, but neither will I accept it as fact until I can verify it beyond all doubt. That being said, I'll damned well act like I believe it enough to worry about it. Anyone mad enough to claim to be You Know Who is plenty to worry about.' Scrimgeour heaved a breath, and sat on the desktop. 'You have a way of collecting trouble, Potter.'

'I'd just as soon not, sir.'

'Hmph.' Scrimgeour passed a hand over his stubbled cheek, and with a final grimace made his decision. 'We need to shut down the school.'

'Unthinkable,' Dumbledore dismissed that immediately.

'Extremely thinkable. I've got a murder, two petrifications, an agent missing, presumed kidnapped, and a boy connected to each of these incidents who can't bloody remember. It's time to take the cautious road.'

'This school is a haven to too many who have no place else to go,' Dumbledore returned evenly. 'And I do not see how our particular quandry is solved by closing the school.'

'Perhaps not, but I think it's a handy solve for a rabid werewolf on the loose.'

'Hey,' Sirius said sharpish.

'Hey yourself, Black.'

'Potter.'

'Merlin's tit, man, I don't give two shits. Listen to me, Potter-- Harry, not you, Sirius-- this is an official warning to you as a man who's seen too many bad things happen to innocent people. _Do not mix yourself up in this._ No tricks, no private investigations, no--'

'But you'll find him?' Harry interrupted. 'You'll look for him? And the book?'

'Yes, Mr Potter, the Auror Corps will do the job it was designed for. And you will do the job students are designed for, yes? We are agreed?'

Harry slumped. 'Yes, sir.'

'Very good. Savage, walk Mr Potter back to his dormitory, please. No side trips.'

'I'm--'

'Potter?'

'Hungry,' Harry said lamely.

'Savage,' Scrimgeour said very slowly and very deliberately, 'walk Mr Potter back to his dormitory, and have a house elf deliver supper.'

 

 

**

 

 

They didn't close the school. It was worse than that. The morning _Prophet_ had the news, with Rita Skeeter's name plastered in ever larger print as her coverage yielded bigger and better headlines. Everyone knew Hogwarts had sacked the suspicious half of its teaching staff by the time the Headmaster put in a rare breakfast appearance, striding to his podium and calling for quiet with no sign of a tinkle or a smile.

'Your Heads of Houses will be passing out new schedules,' the Headmaster told them all grimly. 'This is a temporary situation as we begin hasty arrangements for interviews to replace those of our staff who will be-- leaving-- our Hogwarts' family. When replacements have been found, those classes which were suspended in the meanwhile will be resumed. Til such time, your prefects will arrange additional study sessions to cover those subjects.'

Whispers started up immediately. Harry looked at the paper spread wide over Hermione's plate. The names were listed in a column, all five of them.

_**Rolanda Hooch - Flight Instructor and Quidditch Coordinator** _

_**Sybil Trelawney - Divination Instructor** _

_**Cuthbert Binns - History of Magic Instructor** _

_**Rubeus Hagrid - Gamekeeper** _

_**Filius Flitwick - Charms Instructor** _

And there at the bottom of the list, the one bald lie:

_**Remus Lupin - Care of Magical Creatures Instructor** _

'It's madness,' Hermione hissed. 'Flitwick is one of the best teachers here!'

'Doubt anyone'll be that upset about Binns,' Ron said at Harry's other side. 'And Fred and George say Trelawney's all old farts and no fresh air. But Madam Hooch is great. And Hagrid's the only one's actually done anything wrong!'

'We don't know he did anything wrong, only that he got expelled,' Harry retorted. 'And it's Hagrid, you know what he probably did-- tried to keep some kind of crazy monster under his bed or something. That's not evil at all.'

'Why you think they listed Professor Lupin as fired?' Neville wondered. 'Why cover it up?'

'Scrimgeour's doing, I bet,' Harry said. It enraged him to read Skeeter's gloating over seeing so many people out of jobs they loved. And Remus. It was worse to pretend he'd just been sacked. Not knowing what had happened to him was horrible.

Snape had not been sacked, either, despite the revelation of his Dark past. He took over History of Magic, though not without a bit of difficulty from Binns. Binns had taught History for some forty years alive and near double that dead, and it swiftly became evident that the reason for Binns' long incumbency was less stubborn refusal to accept his dismissal than a sheer lack of comprehension. Snape tried several times to explain, but Binns, impervious to all attempts to herd him out the door, carried on his lecture regardless. Snape gave up the battle for lost and simply removed the students, ordering them to the neighbouring classroom where Binns could be heard still droning on about the Goblin Wars.

'Have you ever even used your books?' Snape enquired irritably.

Hermione put up her hand. Snape ignored her as long as he could, but no-one else was answering, so he had no choice but to call on her. 'Sir,' Hermione replied, 'no.'

Snape put his head back, eyes closed, visibly counting to ten. 'Open your books to Chapter Three and do the reading through Section Two. I will issue a quiz at a quarter past the hour.'

Ron was not the only one dismayed to lose his reliable morning nap in exchange for one of Snape's notoriously difficult quizzes. There was plenty of grumbling to go about as they cracked the spines on their books for the first time all year and hauled out parchment and quills. Hermione was the only one at all excited, but she'd already outlined, highlighted, and annotated her book in its entirety, and was thrilled with the opportunity to finally put that effort to use. She was not so enthused to be marked down for mis-translating the battle anthem of Grapplebrick the Ruthless. Neville, however, received a perfect 'Outstanding'-- 'Gran's always thought it's wise to speak Goblin, so's you don't get cheated at business,' Neville said, wide-eyed as he stared at his parchment, 'though, to be honest, I really can't get my mouth around the glottal stops. I think it's something to do with their teeth.' He hooked his fingers at his lips like fangs.

Harry, thinking of Griphook the Gringott's Bank Manager, who had a fearsome set of fangs that rivalled a shark's, thought Neville might be quite correct in that.

The bell called a halt to further discussion. 'All further lectures will be held here, not next door,' Snape called after them, though it rather landed on deaf ears, as everyone was more eager than ever to get shot of History of Magic.

Harry was the only one who lingered. He stayed in his seat, tracing a line through the dust on his desktop. Hogwarts must once have had many more students at it; now they had the Marauder's Map, it was more evident than ever how few rooms were truly in use.

'Haven't you somewhere else to be?' Snape said, wiping the board with a flick of his wand.

'We've an hour before Charms.' Which would be taught by someone else. 'Why's Flitwick been sacked?' Harry asked. 'Why've any of them?'

Snape pinched at the bridge of his large nose. He sat rather heavily in the desk beside Harry's. 'Half goblin,' he said, turning a moody stare on the door, through which a pair of Aurors could be seen passing by. 'Though, as you may imagine, the circumstances of his mixed blood are unpleasant and no fault of his own. The same can be said of Hagrid. Dumbledore has always looked kindly on those who... those who could find no place elsewhere in the wizarding world.'

'But why make them leave?'

'To remove a distraction. They can be quietly brought back when Rita Skeeter turns her poisonous pen elsewhere.' Snape mimicked Harry, brushing a palm over the dusty desk in a slow sweep. 'Ask what you really mean to ask, Potter.'

Harry wet his lips. 'Why... why weren't you sacked?'

'I don't know.' Snape flattened both hands to the desk. His long fingers, tinged yellow from years of potions brewing, stretched to touch the top edge of the wood. 'Albus might be fool enough to fight for me. He would be the only one.'

'Do you have the mark? The Dark Mark?'

Snape stilled. Then, as if a statue coming to life, or ice melting from his veins, he stirred. One hand rose, going to the cuff of the other sleeve. He unbuttoned it one pearl pin at a time. Then he bared his forearm.

It was as Remus had described it. A snake, in a figure eight, emerging from a gaping skull's grin and ending in a fanged head raised to strike. It was not a tattoo like the stars inked on Sirius's left hand. It didn't have the quality of ink at all-- it was more like a shadow, a brand, and it moved, just slightly, as if it lived beneath the skin.

'Do you want a confessional too?' Snape asked dully. His usually caustic tone was like weak tea, bitter and thin. 'A full disclosure of my crimes and a profession of repentance?'

'No.' Harry made himself look away from the Mark. It was hard to tear his gaze away, and his heart was pounding. He swallowed drily. 'Neville's word is enough for me.'

'Then you would be the first Potter to say so.'

'My mum knew about you? Is she who convinced you to stop?'

'She knew.' Snape's eyes were closed, when Harry glanced up at him.

'One thing,' Harry said. His throat felt tight. He tried again to swallow. 'If you'd known, last year-- at Easter-- if you'd known who Quirrell really was, all along, would you have helped me?'

Snape's dark eyes came open at that. He stared at Harry. Stared through him. 'I don't know,' he said airlessly.

Okay. Harry managed a nod. Okay.

'But--' Snape's chin folded to his chest. His eyes closed again, and this time did not open. 'But I wouldn't take it back.'

Harry reached across the space between them. The Mark was cool to the touch, textureless. He drew down the roll of Snape's sleeve and covered it. He set each of the buttons, eleven of them in all, and the cufflink, and then he left his hand resting there, on Snape's arm.

'Okay,' he said, and took up his bag and left.

 

 

**

 

 

The post office box Harry had hired for his fan mail was full.

Overfull, actually. The owls began to arrive on Thursday. Seamus shrieked and ducked under the table when a horde of them descended on breakfast. Harry made a solid attempt to follow him, but was cut off by the dive of a vicious-looking eagle owl that arrived claws-first.

'All right!' Harry shouted, accepting the overstuffed package of letters it dropped on his head. Several more followed. Dozens.

'What are you doing to do with all of it?' Hermione asked curiously, unwrapping one of the packages and opening the top letter. 'This one's from a witch in Somerset who wants you to promote her line of love potions.'

'Ew,' said Neville.

'Very ew,' Harry agreed.

Tracey Davis and Lavender Brown, however, yanked the letter out of Hermione's grip and bent over it with an exchange of fierce whispers.

'Burn 'em,' Ron advised.

'Professor Dumbledore!' Harry stumbled out from under the pile of post and ran to the head of the Hall. 'Sir! Sir?'

Dumbledore looked haggard, up close. There were deep circles beneath his eyes and his beard was crimped from being wound too many times about his wand, as it was doing just now. 'Ah, Harry,' Dumbledore greeted him, but didn't stop moving for the Doors. 'Forgive me, I'm in rather a hurry. I must go with all haste to London.'

'To London, why?'

'The Wizengamot is holding a hearing about events in our school.' Dumbledore paused long enough for a smile at Harry, weary as it was. 'I will be seeing your guardian, I'm sure. Shall I pass on a message?'

'I miss him,' Harry said truthfully. 'And... and I know Remus misses him. Wherever he is.'

Dumbledore's smile saddened. 'Yes, I'm sure he does.' They crossed through the doors and into the corridor beyond. 'Is there anything else I can do for you?'

'I don't know if it's doing, so much.' Harry hesitated. 'I... Hagrid-- Hagrid's not going to have to leave Hogwarts, is he? Only he's lived here since he was a student, hasn't he? And if he hasn't anywhere else to go, I was thinking I could offer him my dad's house in Kent. Only there's no-one else there and I'm sure it'd be lonely, but--'

Dumbledore touched a hand on Harry's shoulder. 'That is a lovely thought, Harry. I think he would greatly appreciate such an invitation, and if he chooses to go I will not hold him back. But I have no intention of forcing him out of his home here. So long as I am Headmaster, no-one shall be forced to leave Hogwarts, whatever their employment status. I have, in fact, already explained to the governors that Hagrid does not work for the school. His contract is and has always been with me. The same is not true, alas, for Madams Hooch and Trelawney, nor dear Professor Flitwick, but as Headmaster I have considerable authority over these grounds, and I shall not be shy in exercising it, I promise you. You will find that help will always be given to those at Hogwarts who ask for it.'

'That's good, sir.' Harry allowed himself that much relief; Hagrid's fate had worn on him in the midst of everything else he had to think on. 'May I visit Hagrid anyway? Just to see how he's getting on.'

'I have no doubt he'd be very grateful if you did. Hagrid is a man of immense loyalty, you know-- not unlike yourself, I believe.' Dumbledore released Harry to lift the heavy hem of his dusky grey robe. He placed a slipper of gold thread and neon pink laces on the first stair leading upward into the bowels of the school. 'But after class, Harry, if you will.'

'Oh. Right. Obviously.'

Charms was not cancelled, but Professor Vector had nearly half the class in tears by the end of the session. She was not strict in the way McGonagall was strict; she was another level entirely, and even Hermione was sweating. They trudged out, exhausted, grateful only to have been spared the humiliation of a dozen lost points with another House to witness it.

'Christ on a cracker,' Dean said, shaken, and Harry fervently agreed.

Draco was waiting for them, not at all patiently, outside the DADA classroom, where they were due for the Thursday practical. 'Give me the cloak at dinner,' he told Harry, pulling him aside into the alcove with the statue of Winston the Wordnik. 'I'll sneak out to meet you so we can go searching.'

'Scrimgeour warned me not to,' Harry said, startled.

'So?' Draco dismissed that with a shrug. 'You didn't swear on anything.'

'I think this is one of those situations where you're being more Slytherin than I'm being Gryffindor, and you need to back it down a bit.'

Draco gave him a little shove. 'Stop that.' He hugged his book to his chest, eyeing Harry from beneath pale lashes. 'Are you all right?' he asked quietly.

Harry took a breath, or as much as he could. It didn't seem to get very far down his gullet. 'No,' he said. 'Not really.'

Draco made a strange little abortive move. Then stopped. Then evidently decided against his indecision, and reached. His knuckles grazed Harry's cheek as he put his arm about Harry's shoulders, and squeezed awkwardly.

'Oh,' Harry said. 'Um, thank you.'

'Don't make it worse.' Draco was flushed when he pulled back. 'Just-- go to class.'

'We're both going to class. Everyone's going to class.'

'I _know_. Just bring me the cloak at dinner, all right? And the other Knights. We'll go searching for Lupin and for the book.'

'We don't even know where to look,' Harry protested, trailing Draco back to the others. 'I was Obliviated.'

'We need to find that book,' whispered Neville, who agreed immediately and without protest that Draco's idea of an illicit and secret search was sensible and timely. 'And right quick, I reckon. Obliviating's serious business.'

'Obliviating!' repeated an unnaturally high voice from over their heads. It was Lockhart, who, for once, forgot his usual saucy wink at Hermione and didn't preen his golden hair or swish his robe of elf-woven Venetian lace dotted with thousands of pearls. He looked uncommonly pale, in fact, and his laugh was oddly forced. 'What on earth could you children be talking about, Obliviating! Aurors! Ha-ha-ha-- but it's no laughing matter, my lads.'

'Er, no,' Harry said, eyeing Lockhart with misgiving. Was every professor at Hogwarts going mad? 'Only we were just--'

'Don't want to go mixing it up with the Aurors, no, no, no, serious business indeed, quite right, Mr Longbottom, quite right. Why I was saying so to Auror Savage just this morning-- passing on my read of the situation, as it were, a bit of advice for handling this crisis. Very grateful for my experience in matters of magical mayhem, he was-- good title, don't you think? I shall have to remember that, Matters of Magical Mayhem-- you know, Harry,' he said, latching onto Harry's shoulder with fingers like hooks, digging into the muscle, 'we ought to partner on a draft. Just imagine the sales! Gilderoy Lockhart, assisted by Harry Potter, we'd sell out the first edition overnight, absolute sensation, top of the charts!'

'Er, no,' Harry said again, with even greater emphasis, but Lockhart was grinning as if the sheer force of his mania were all that was keeping him standing.

'An exclusive interview, at the very least, won't take no for an answer! And my publisher pays very well for exclusives, I don't mind telling you,' he added, dropping volume just enough to suggest intrigue, waggling his eyebrows at Draco. ' _Very_ well.'

'I don't need any money, sir,' Harry said, giving up on extracting himself and sagging limply in Lockhart's grip. 'And I really don't like interviews.'

'Don't like interviews!' Lockhart laughed as if this were most entertaining thing he'd heard all year. 'Ah, that was a good one, Harry my boy. Don't like interviews, indeed.'

They took their usual desks inside the classroom, and under cover of books jostling and quills scratching over parchment Harry bent to whisper to Ron and Hermione. 'Let's meet tonight,' he said. 'Someone find Charlus Wasleigh's portrait and get him to contact the others. We'll look for the book tonight, after everyone's gone to sleep. The twins can figure out how to distract Cravensworth.'

 

 

**

 

 

A lack of judicious word selection had led to something of a misunderstanding with the house elves. Harry had thought he was being quite clear at breakfast: 'If it's not important, let's just be rid of it,' he'd said, but he'd left a gaping hole in his logic. He'd meant that none of the fan mail could possibly be important. The house elves could not fathom that the business of wizards would _not_ be important. When Harry clattered up the stairs at the end of the day, it was to the sight of his four-poster bed absolutely massacred with correspondence. Not a single letter had been discarded.

'You can't just burn it all,' Hermione decided, when Harry retreated immediately to the common room hauling an armload of post for the fire. 'There may be something in there you'd want to read.'

'Nope,' Harry said, flinging the entire mess of it into the flames. It smothered the fire. One of the sixth years lounging nearby gave Harry a cross look, drew her wand, and started it going again as Harry rubbed sheepishly at his neck.

'What in Merlin's name is all this?' came an outraged shout. 'Potter! Is all this rubbish yours?'

Harry jerked to attention. A quick glance at Ginny, sat at one of the tables with her Potions text propped up for reading, confirmed it-- she was grinning widely, for once daring full eye contact and even an entire, entirely comprehensible, word in Harry's presence.

'Percy!' she said, and flung herself at the boy just emerging at the foot of the stairs.

Percy Weasley was back. He wore his black robe over his uniform, his tight curls brushed as best could be done and his glasses shined free of finger-smudges as Harry never managed to get his, and his Prefect badge was still proudly pinned to his chest. Only the boy behind the proper Percy facade was changed, and Harry spotted it immediately. Percy had thinned, even those few weeks away from school. And though he stood with his chin in the air stern as ever, there was an air of something defencive about him, something pulled in and wound tight, and he didn't look a single one of them in the eye, not even his sister as she flung herself at him and hugged him. Ron and the twins were next, having heard Ginny's shout, and took their turns slapping Percy's back and beaming at him as he blushed under all this attention.

'I only meant to enquire what all this rubbish is,' Percy blustered, gesturing to the trail of fan letters that had dropped on Harry's path to the common room. 'There's an elf upstairs delivering two more bags of it.'

Harry groaned. 'Can't they just dump it in the lake? Or return to sender!'

'Perce?' It was Oliver Wood. He descended the stairs in a gallop that slowed to a crawl, the last few steps, as if he couldn't believe his eyes or couldn't be sure of his welcome. 'You never wrote me back,' Oliver started, and abruptly clammed up.

'Yes, well,' Percy said, hoarse and looking anywhere but at his dormmate. 'I've been very busy. Occupied with my studies.'

'Heiring to Slytherin and all,' added Fred.

'Petrifying Purebloods,' grinned George. 'I recommend Uncle Bilius, he gives the worst Christmas presents.'

'That's not funny,' Oliver snapped out in his Captain of the Quidditch Team voice, and the twins, long used to obeying it, came to attention before they thought to protest. 'Apologise to your brother. _Now._ '

'It doesn't matter, Oliver.'

'It does.' Oliver descended the last of the stairs to Percy's side, glowering at his Beaters. 'You're a Gryffindor, a Weasley, and my best friend, and I'll defend your honour to anyone who mouths off like a twat.'

'Oliver.' Percy's ears had gone as red as the rest of his face, but a tiny smile began to break the ice in his eyes.

'Sorry, Percy,' George mumbled.

'Yeah, sorry,' Fred muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets. 'Didn't mean nothing by it.'

'You don't see Slytherins forgettin' what comes first. Family. Anyone who forgets is off my team and on my bad side, and you don't wanna see my bad side, eh, boys?' Oliver pitched that last to the entire common room and anyone lingering on the stairs to observe Percy's impromptu homecoming. He put his arm about Percy, defying the world with his stony glare. 'Anyone who says a single damn thing about the Heir of Slytherin can meet me on the duellin' grounds at dawn, are we clear?'

'Duelling's against the rules,' Percy said, but he didn't say it very loudly, and Harry thought there wouldn't be any takers, anyway. Oliver's point had been well taken. 'Just... clean all this up, Potter, will you.'

'I will,' Harry answered. 'And-- welcome back.'

Percy managed a reasonably dignified nod. 'Thank you. Oh, and whoever has Scabbers, could you bring him back? I've missed him.'

Oh, no. Harry didn't need Ron's alarmed glance. 'Er... right,' he said weakly.

'What are you going to tell him about Scabbers?' Hermione demanded the moment Harry returned to the fire, this time with a handful of letters he added to the merrily burning char of the first load. 'Not the truth?'

'We don't know the truth, not really.' Harry plopped himself onto the rug beside his friend, drawing his knees up to his chest. 'And we may never, if we never find Remus and that bloody book.' Ron brought Harry another few letters, and Harry occupied himself tearing them into strips.

'Don't do that,' Neville chided him, rescuing one with just a single rip in it. 'I know you think it's embarrassing, but it's nice, I think. They want to thank you for what you did.'

What I did was live when my parents died, Harry thought rebelliously, but it wouldn't be fair to Neville to go spitting that out, when Neville had borne a very similar burden all his years and had no thanks for it at all, wanted or otherwise. 'They only care because of Lockhart's ruddy book,' Harry said instead, beginning to feel rather defeated by it all.

'I'm sure that's not true, and even if it is, who cares why they decided to do it? They still care about you.' Hermione set the purring Mrs Norris aside from her lap to join Neville on the sofa and read the letter he'd opened. 'This one, look, this one is very sweet. It's--'

'I don't want to know, Hermione. I'd just as soon never see any of this'--' Rot. 'Stuff. Ever again.'

'I know you don't think much of him, but you might consider that Lockhart's actually quite qualified to advise you in this,' she said, primly ignoring the chorus of eyerolls Lockhart's name earnt her. 'And you don't imagine Muggle celebrities just toss out all their fan mail, do you? They hire secretaries.'

'I'm twelve,' Harry scoffed. 'I can't hire anyone.'

'No, but Sirius could,' Ron said thoughtfully. 'It's not a bad idea, you know. People send gifts and all kinds of stuff, I bet there's even money in there.' He picked up likely-looking bulks from the pile Harry had dropped to the rug, shaking them for the clatter of coins. Much to Harry's disgust, his search yielded immediate results. Some of the coins turned out to be chocolate, which Harry promptly bequeathed him, but Ron wouldn't take the galleons.

'I don't need more money,' Harry protested, frowning down at the four different letters that had enclosed a handsome sum. 'They don't even want me to do anything for them, why are they sending me quid?'

'You're the Boy Who Lived,' Neville shrugged, reading over Harry's shoulder. 'People're still grateful. And with the _Prophet_ stirring people up about the attacks at Hogwarts and You Know Who last year they're all worried again.'

'These are bribes?' Harry said indignantly. 'So I'll fight Voldemort-- sorry, Ron-- again?'

'More like rewards, actually,' Hermione corrected. 'If you don't want it, put it in a fund. That's a good idea, you could start a charity fund and then anyone who sends you anything you just donate it, whatever it is. Til you've done that, though, we'll help you open everything and sort it. We've got time now, before you-know-what.'

'What?' said Ron.

Hermione smacked him with a letter. 'Before we go searching for _you-know-what_ tonight.'

'I was gonna nap!'

'We won't get through all of it tonight anyway,' Harry said gloomily. 'There's way too much of it.'

'We'll get started, at least. But we don't want to get behind on homework, so why don't you read to us as we work, Neville? Let's do Transfiguration first.'

Despite Hermione's noble intentions, Harry paid only the smallest bit of attention to Neville's reading from the textbook, his interest reluctantly captured by the letters. Despite his determination to think badly of people who'd write or send money to a random boy they'd never met, Harry found himself drawn in by the strange enthusiasm of their messages to him.

From Mary Mandeville in Roydon: _Dear Harry Potter, I have read Gilderoy Lockhart's book about you and I wanted to tell you how proud we all are of you. In my house we drink a toast to you every Halloween, and now we will drink a toast at Easter as well. I know in my heart if your parents were alive they would be as proud of you as we are._

From Thornton Davies in West Tofts: _Dear Harry Potter, is it true you figured out your teacher was really You Know Who? You must be very intelligent as well as very brave, to face him down when even Albus Dumbledore could not. You should run for Minister of Magic, I think everyone with half a brain would vote for you._

From Niamh O'Connor in Newbold on Avon: _Dear Harry Potter, my mummy is reading me a book about you and you are my favourite superhero. I have drawn a picture for you of me and you playing in my treehouse._

From Sienna Poole in Abinger Hammer: _Dear Harry Potter, I lost both my parents in the war just like you. I went to live with my aunt in France for a while because it was too dangerous, but after you defeated He Who Must Not Be Named in 1981 I was allowed to come home. I am wondering if I should leave again or if you think it is safe to be in Britain?_

From John Scarlett-Hayes in Leavening: _Dear Harry Potter, I am five and I heard you don't have parents and I wanted to let you know that if you wanted you could have mine. My dad yells a lot and my mum is awfully silly but they are all right I think and I wouldn't mind sharing if you liked._

Much as he loved the idea of his parents, much as he loved looking at their pictures in his album and thinking what they'd have been like-- much as he wished they were alive and he had them all to himself, he couldn't help thinking he didn't need to share John Scarlett-Hayes' parents. He had a dad who loved him. And Sirius, whatever role Sirius was-- dog, sometimes, fun uncle, other times. Guardian. Dad. And it was enough. It was the perfect amount.

He swiped hard at his eyes, and opened another letter.

Cedric and Cho were waiting for them at midnight in the dim, quiet corridor outside the Gryffindor common room, Fred at their side-- 'George has got Cravensworth by the nose hairs,' Fred told them, grinning widely, 'we've been saving up a special little something for a rainy day.'

'What about Draco?'

'Here,' Draco said, shedding Harry's invisibility cloak. 'Snape's on the prowl. Crabbe and Goyle will sneak into the girls' dorms at half past.'

'Why on earth?' Hermione demanded, looking revolted. 'There's hexes to prevent boys going to the girls' side, and the reverse, anyway.'

'And they're stupid enough to forget that, which Snape very well knows. He'll be hours telling them down to the smallest detail exactly how stupid they are, not to mention unhexing them. That should be enough time for us.'

'Won't Crabbe and Goyle just blame it on you?' Neville wondered.

Draco scoffed. 'You think they're clever enough to even realise it was my idea? All I did was mention in front of them what a hilarious prank it would be, and that half past is when Snape is safely in bed. Which he is, on nights he's not patrolling.'

'Aren't they your friends?'

'Between the two of them they still couldn't beat Trevor the Toad in a battle to the death. You feel that badly for them, _you_ be their friends.'

'Enough,' Harry said. 'Let's go. Fred, you lead us. Let's search as many places as we can tonight.'


	15. Sardines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which One Hides, And Many Seek._

'Sirius?' Harry edged a toe over the door jamb. 'Sirius, are you going to come down for breakfast?'

The blankets on the canopy-draped bed shifted as its occupant stirred. 'S'it morning already?' Sirius croaked, his tousled head lifting from the pillow groggily.

'Half ten.' Harry, encouraged, dared to come all the way in, though he hovered at the door. 'Kreacher's just going to throw it out again if you don't come down.'

'Bloody elf,' Sirius cursed, but even that was too weary for emotion. His head fell back, and he draped an arm over his eyes.

'Please,' Harry said. Another cautious step and he was at the rug. 'Sirius, you need to eat something. It's been days.'

'I just don't feel like it, kiddo.'

'I know.' The floor creaked under his weight as Harry crossed the rug to the bed. He covered one of Sirius's feet under the doxy-eaten duvet. 'You'll be ill. And... and I could really use the company. I don't much like it here all alone.'

It wasn't untrue. Grimmauld Place was dusty and pokey and dark, even when the curtains were drawn from the windows-- not that they were, in Sirius's bedroom. Only two rooms were in any state for occupants, but Harry had no-one to ask about the mysterious Regulus whose room seemed to be some kind of memorial, everything draped in black with withered rose petals cloying the air. He hated sleeping in there, cowering under the wrinkled bedclothes with every strange whisper and shiver of the groaning old townhouse coming out of the malevolent dark like an evil curse. He'd come to a cautious detente with the bat that lived in the watercloset; Harry tried to pretend it didn't exist, and the bat didn't leave its perch to flap scary wings at Harry's head. If he could have achieved anything so mutual with Kreacher, the vile glowering house elf who constantly muttered nasty things about Sirius and Harry violating sacred territory, Harry would have been far more comfortable. As it was, he'd twice picked ashy grit out of his dinner as if it had been deliberately flung to the floor, and he frequently found the elf watching him with a gimlet eye, cackling softly to himself. It was unnerving. All that would be endurable if Sirius could only be persuaded to leave his bed; but Harry knew all too well why Sirius malingered like this, depressed and wallowing in it.

Hogwarts had closed a week early for the holidays. It closed a day after the final session of the Wizengamot's winter term, ensuring, so the _Prophet_ speculated, that Dumbledore could keep his seat as Chief Warlock without challenge-- at least til spring, when the _Prophet_ and its legion of readers devoutly hoped his shoddy performance as Headmaster would see the rest of his career off in all the disgrace it had so resplendently earnt. The _Prophet_ was so thrilled in its successful campaign to ruin something, someone, anyone that they completely failed to report the actual reason Hogwarts shut its doors with little warning. The full moon was set to rise.

Remus Lupin had vanished without a trace, and neither Aurors nor Knights of Jupiter could find him. No Marauder's Map, no Animagus sniffing for trails with his dog form's enhanced senses, no scrying spell, no old-fashioned foot search had turned up any clues. Scrimgeour had had no choice but to remove a thousand potential victims from a werewolf's path. Dumbledore had had no choice but to agree. But the full moon had come and gone, and there was still no sign of Remus.

'Sirius,' Harry said, and with a deep breath decided he was done leaving Sirius to mourn. He toed off his house slippers and climbed over the footboard. Sirius lay on the right side of the bed, leaving the left open for a man who wasn't there, couldn't be there. Harry took it instead, curling on his side with the limp pillow under his cheek, and he wound his fingers in the sleeve of Sirius's sleeping shirt. 'Sirius, please.'

Sirius swallowed heavily. He put out an arm, and Harry took the invitation, resting his head on Sirius's shoulder. Sirius squeezed him hard, and sighed against his hair.

'Fuck this place,' Sirius whispered. 'Let's visit Da at Mungo's, and then let's go home.'

'Yes,' Harry agreed, relief and gladness warming him for the first time in days. 'Let's do.'

A spine-popping stretch got Sirius upright. He ran a hand through lank hair and grimaced at the growth of beard on his chin. 'A bath, first, though,' he said, and gave off a reluctant little chuckle when Harry nodded vigorously. He mimed a sniff at his underarm and winced broadly. 'Definitely a bath, eh. Kreacher!'

A hateful grumble from just beyond the door indicated the house elf had been lingering nearby, probably eavesdropping. A wizened hairless head poked round.

'It wants something?' the house elf sneered. Slytherins, Harry thought, could take lessons in tone from Kreacher. He had a way of conveying great fathoms of contempt in a glance that must have been a lifetime's achievement in snobbery and scorn.

'It wants a hot bath, and then it wants you to go suck an egg,' Sirius retorted, pleasantly poisonous. 'C'mon, Harry. I could murder a cup of tea just now.'

 

 

**

 

 

'Lord Potter,' the witch at the desk greeted Sirius, with a familiar and sympathetic smile. 'He's only just had his wash and he's sleeping.'

'Thanks, Julia.'

'Is that-- you must be Harry,' the witch stuttered, and then blushed prettily. 'I meant-- Mr Potter. Only Sirius has mentioned you before and I've read--'

'Lockhart's book, yeah,' Harry said. 'Um, hello.'

'You must be very brave,' she gushed all in a hurry. 'To face what you've faced. And all whilst this is happening to your grandfather.' In a sudden rush she stood from her desk with a covered dish, offering it to him. 'Biscuit?' she asked lamely, face aflame. Harry took one just to get past the moment, making an awkward noise of thanks as he bit into it. Gingerbread, and a little stale. He wasn't sure which of them was more relieved when Sirius tugged him away, through the doors to the Long-Term Care Ward.

Lyall had a room to himself, at the moment-- the other bed was empty and stripped, the nameplate above hastily wiped of its previous occupant's identity. Harry found that monstrously discomfiting. Lyall was laid out below the window, which had been hung with a crooked spray of holly in a nod to the holiday season. A few Christmas cards stood on his bedside table, one from Glynnie and one, Harry saw sadly, from his son. Did Lyall even know Remus had gone missing? His bedquilt from home was spread over his hospital-issue sheets, and his sparse hair had been neatly brushed and his face freshly shaved, but no amount of attempted cheer could hide the weight he'd lost, the new lines in his craggy face. He looked a hundred years old, and withering in a cocoon of silence.

'Hullo, Da,' Sirius said, giving one limp hand a squeeze. 'I've brought Harry.'

'Hi,' Harry croaked. He cleared his throat. 'He... can he hear us?'

'Dunno.' Sirius dragged a chair near and slouched low. 'I used to. In Azkaban, all we could hear day and night alike was the storm outside the walls. I hated that sound-- if I never go near running water again I'm just as pleased. Sometimes, though, the other prisoners would talk. We couldn't see each other, so I'd just hear the tone, like, not the words, but I lived for those moments. It's the only way I'd know I wasn't already in the grave, in hell.' Sirius rubbed a hand hard over his face. 'Sorry. I'm not supposed to talk about that stuff with you. Moony'd have my head for giving you nightmares.'

'I'm really sorry, Sirius.'

'I know.' Sirius forced a smile. 'Just talk to me, then, and if he can hear us he'll enjoy it too. Tell me about Quidditch? Have you had any matches yet?'

'No, we're scheduled for January, first thing back. It's been Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, then Hufflepuff and Slytherin.' Harry found he could answer a little easier if he didn't look directly at Lyall's sleeping face. 'Draco got to play for a bit, when Tony Babbington took a Bludger to the ribs. Cedric got the Snitch both times. He's really good.'

'Harry? I thought that was you.'

Harry jumped, turning toward the door. Neville stood there, looking surprised and a bit embarrassed; behind him in the hall was his imposing grandmother, Lady Longbottom, who had forsaken her vulture hat for a dark lace veil that hung shroud-like over the wide skirts of her black gown. Healers in their lime green robes had to inch past her clinging to the walls to avoid treading on the long velvet train.

'Oh, Neville, did something happen,' Harry began, dread overcoming him. Neville, too, wore sombre black, and a giant white rose pinned droopingly to his lapel.

'Oh, er, no.' Neville glanced back at his grandmother. 'We, um, we always wear-- this stuff-- I'm here to visit--'

'Your parents,' Sirius rescued him gently, rising at this and buttoning his robe across his chest. 'You boys talk a minute, eh? I'll take care of Granny there.' He gave Neville's shoulder a quick squeeze as he passed, and then he was stepping into the corridor to give a low bow and polite greeting to Lady Longbottom, who gave him a suspicious sniff but allowed herself to be drawn away to the canteen for a cup of tea with Sirius.

Neville looked a bit overcome with this unexpected kindness. 'Zat your granddad?' he asked Harry, shuffling in place and tugging at his tightly collared tie.

'Yeah.' Lyall hadn't stirred at all despite the interruption. He went on breathing, and that was all. 'Your parents?' Harry asked.

'They're in the ward here. Gran always brings me to visit at breaks.'

In full mourning get-up. 'I'll go with you to visit, if you like,' Harry said. 'Unless you want to be alone?'

'No, that'd be grand,' Neville interrupted. 'I've never... I've never introduced them to a friend, before.'

There was little about Saint Mungo's to love, and Harry hated especially how everywhere they went had a pall of forced cheer. They passed a healer escorting a patient in pyjamas on a shamble in the corridors; there was a man, some indeterminate age between twenty and sixty who sat alone in a rocker at a window, staring at nothing as a drip of drool slowly soaked his shirt. And yet everywhere there were fairy lights or strings of candy floss on small trees or cranberry and popcorn strings and wreaths of pine as if it were any other Christmas, and music played everywhere, swinging carols emitted from wireless radios in the patient rooms. The relentless roar of a storm at Azkaban seemed infinitely preferrable to Harry over a topsy-turvy world of clownish gaiety imposed on a sterile sickroom.

Neville knew his path, and grew tenser with each passing step til at last they turned a final corner and came to a ward on which hung a pair of aged boys' brogues in cracking leather. Neville stopped to fill them up with treats from his pockets-- taffies and ice mice and chocolate frogs and fudge twists-- and then let himself in with a deep breath for courage. Harry halted at the door, unsure how far his welcome really extended, but then told himself to be a proper Gryffindor and followed Neville in.

Neville went right up to a man seated on the bed nearest, to give him a hug and to gently pry his hands away from twisting the buttons of his shirt. 'Hiyas, Dad,' he said, doing up the buttons proper and filling the man's hands with a packet of mince pies instead. 'Did you sleep well? Let's get your slippers on, yeah?'

'Nnnn,' said the woman who sat fumbling a spoon through sludgy porridge at the table. Her hair was shorn close to her head and was more silver than brown, but she had large brown eyes just like Neville's, and they spilled over with tears suddenly. She dropped the spoon to clutch at her head, lurching away as Neville hurried to comfort her.

'It's all right, Mum, it's all right,' Neville whispered, embracing her and stroking her hair. 'It's me, Neville. It's all right.'

'Nnnn,' she groaned. 'Nnnn.'

By the time Lady Longbottom returned and Sirius extricated them with a courteous farewell and a promise of dinner some indeterminate time in the future, Harry had done some hard thinking. Neville took his hug with some astonishment, blushing over the handshake Harry offered next, but red as cooked lobster when Harry turned his head to Lady Longbottom and said firmly, 'Ma'am, you must be very proud of Neville. He's the best person I've ever met, I think.'

'My Neville?' Lady Longbottom stuttered.

'Yes,' Harry nodded. 'He really is the bravest person I know. I'm really glad he thinks of me as a friend.'

'I-- he--' Neville's gran looked on the verge of apoplexy for a moment-- and then suddenly it came all over something closer to delight, instead. She put out a hand, and Harry shook it. But then her hand stayed out, and Neville, a bit dazed, went to her. She wrapped her arm about his hunched shoulders and drew him close to her.

Sirius gave Harry a canny look at they took their exit. 'You know what you were doing in there?' he asked.

'Neville deserves it.' Harry took a cleansing breath. 'And it needed saying. Sirius? Can we go back to Grandda's room again? I'd think I'd like to talk some more to him.'

'Yeah,' Sirius said, and just like Lady Longbottom he put his arm about Harry and held him near. 'Yeah, let's do.'

 

 

**

 

 

Christmas day dawned clear and cold.

Harry cooked, if a little inexpertly, and produced a feast of fried eggs, slightly burnt sausages, eggy toast with honey and icing sugar, and leftover ham from the basket Mrs Weasley had sent 'two young bachelors who can hardly be expected to do for themselves'. He and Sirius ate on the floor amidst a bevy of chintz cushions from the sofas, watching _Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory_ on the new telly that was Sirius's gift to him. They had to pause the tape a dozen times so Harry could explain key plot points-- no, Muggles didn't traditionally burst into song when explaining the basics of factory operations, and no, so far as Harry was aware, Oompa Loompas were not Muggle house elves, and Willy Wonka did seem rather wizard-like, yes, which led to an interesting debate on the Statute of Secrecy and whether Muggles might be more aware of magic than Wizardkind thought they were.

The owls arrived just after breakfast, bringing gifts from all Harry's friends. A book from Hermione, that was no surprise, but Sirius howled with laughter when they discovered it was one of Lockhart's books, and Hermione had written in the margins about all the ways it was completely impossible for Lockhart to have actually done any of the things he claimed, putting the final kibosh on her crush. 'He's still a very good writer,' Hermione claimed in her Christmas card, 'but it's not exactly biography, is it?' Ron had sent fireworks from Zonko's, and Sirius immediately went running for their coats and scarves so they could set them off outside. They were breathless, frozen-cheeked and numbed fingers, but having a wonderful time with the thunderous cracks and multi-coloured lights whizzing in all directions over the snow-covered valley. If at quiet moments Sirius stood still and stared off thinking of who wasn't with them, he always recovered with a smile and threw himself manically into making Harry laugh til he forgot about it.

They trooped into the kitchen for a hot cup of chocolate when they had at last finished off the fireworks. Sirius heated milk with a tap of his wand, and Harry melted them a fresh brick of Honeydukes that had been tucked into his shoes over the mantel. They competed to see who could get the thickest, woolliest chocolate moustache as they warmed up, giggling as they smeared their upper lips with chocolate and cream.

'That the floo?' Sirius asked suddenly. Harry turned his head. He'd heard it too.

'Lord Potter?' a voice called from the floo room. 'Master Harry?'

Sirius abandoned his seat at a trot, Harry just behind him. Harry, peering about Sirius, was treated to the sight of a man's head poking through the green flames in the huge fireplace. A man he knew. A man Sirius knew, too. Sirius was standing hands on his hips, a sour scowl on his face.

'I'm really not open for business calls at Christmas, specially from the likes of you,' Sirius said.

'It's not business, my Lord,' Lucius Malfoy replied. 'I merely hoped to speak to my son. If I might come through?'

'Your son?' Sirius's arms dropped. 'Draco's not here.'

'Not there?' The head in the fire frowned. 'If he doesn't want to speak to me--'

'Come through, I'm getting a crick in the neck looking at you. And if you think this is any opportunity for funny business, don't. I'm armed and I'm at least half as crazy as everyone thinks I am.'

The head withdrew, and the flames shot to man-height. A moment later, Malfoy-- all of him-- appeared in the flames, stepping out with great dignity and a well-practised shake of robe and tap of shoe to shed the ash. He wore very fine robes, the ones he'd worn last year when Harry had stayed over Christmas with them, with mink at the collar and cuffs and his long blond hair spread shining over his shoulders. If not for the pale of his cheeks and the bruised-looking shadows under his eyes, he would have looked as regal as ever.

'Happy Christmas,' Malfoy greeted them both. He paused, and said very carefully, 'I understand that Draco may wish to avoid contact, but it is Christmas, and his mother and I would very much like to see him. Only to see him. We needn't even speak if he doesn't wish it.'

'Draco isn't here, though,' Harry said. 'I haven't seen him since school went out.'

Malfoy's jaw set. He chose his words slowly. 'I understand why you might have been persuaded to lie for him.'

'I'm not, sir.'

'He made it very clear to me that he would spend the holidays with you.' Malfoy removed a letter from his pocket. 'This is my son's handwriting. I am quite sure he wrote it.'

'May I?' Sirius asked, reaching for it. 'I may not be an Auror anymore, but I do remember some of it.'

Malfoy was reluctant to hand over the letter, but in the end he did it. That was nerves, Harry thought. He was not a happy man, he was a worried father. He wanted answers. He wanted his son.

Sirius examined the letter thoroughly, even walking to a lamp to view it back-lit. 'This is how Draco usually writes?' he asked. 'No words out of place, or phrases that seem unusual?'

'He's not usually so forthright in his temper,' Malfoy said. 'He knows there are consequences for misbehaviour. But... our... relationship has not been... at its best, of late.'

'Meaning?' Sirius returned the letter. 'I'm not prying for curiosity's sake. Information is helpful.'

'We had a rather bitter argument after the events of the last schoolyear.' Malfoy's eyes roved to and did not settle on Harry, turning stiffly to the side. 'I sent Draco to Sweden to stay with his aunt. Draco was not particularly pleased with this. He refused to allow either his mother or myself to escort him to the Express at the beginning of term, or even to visit him at Saint Mungo's when he was injured at Quidditch. When he owled that he preferred to spend Christmas with you, Master Harry, I cannot say I was surprised. He indicated you had invited him, and I thought it better to let it be. At first, at least. I wanted... I wanted him to know we did want him home. Most-- most ardently.'

'Has Draco ever run away before?'

'Never. He's always been perfectly well behaved.'

'If he's not here, where is he?' Harry asked.

'Does he have any other friends who might have had him over without verifying with you first?' Sirius pressed Malfoy. 'Harry, anyone you know of?'

'Goyle or Crabbe, maybe,' Harry guessed. 'They're both lumps-- er, I mean--'

'The boys might be persuaded, but not their fathers,' Malfoy said. 'But I will send an owl immediately, if you have one.'

'No owl, but we can ring Tonks.' Malfoy couldn't contain a little spasm of disaste, and Sirius's lip curled in reply. 'You can keep your bigotry to yourself, she's your wife's bloody niece and an Auror, and that's about the choices we have just now in easy reach.'

'I object less to her being a relative and an Auror than I do to her being a member of Dumbledore's not nearly secret enough gang of toughs and spies,' Malfoy retorted.

'You know about that?' Harry said, unwise and realising it the moment it left his lips. 'Er...'

Sirius rolled his eyes. 'Go sit,' he told Malfoy. 'I'll make the call. Harry-- get him a drink, or something. Don't want the Malfoys spreading rumours I'm not hospitable.'

Mr Malfoy looked comically out of place in the kitchen, a location Harry was fairly sure Malfoy had never actually been in before. The stately gentleman looked at the stove as if it were an alien artefact, and sat at the little table as if he expected it to turn into a fire-breathing dragon. He accepted a hot chocolate with something not quite suspicion-- more like fear of germs, Harry thought, a concept that might have made Harry smile, in other circumstances. Malfoy wouldn't know what germs were, anyway. He wouldn't get the joke.

Sirius returned perhaps a quarter of an hour later, breaking the tense silence. He reached into a cupboard to the top shelf, and pulled down a bottle of Ogden's Firewhisky. He poured two glasses, and brought one to Malfoy. He knocked back the other himself. 'Tonks will check on those boys you mentioned, and anyone they can think of who might know where Draco's really got to. If that doesn't lead anywhere, she'll check the school and try to retrace his steps.'

'You don't think he could still be there? The school?'

Sirius sloshed another pour into his glass. 'There's no use in panicking yet.'

Harry had been chewing something over, and the grim expressions of the two men in the kitchen pushed him toward a decision. He said, 'Mr Malfoy, I wonder if you've asked Dobby to find Draco?'

Malfoy's head rose from his glass. 'Dobby?'

'Your house elf, sir. He really cares about Draco. Worries about him.'

'And you know this how?'

'Draco told me before,' Harry said, not untruthfully. 'But you could ask. Dobby would look for him.'

Malfoy drained his whisky. 'I need to ask you a question, Master Harry, and I would appreciate an honest answer.'

'Harry doesn't have anything to lie about,' Sirius said, not a little pugnacious, but he didn't say anything else when Harry glanced at him. He poured himself another splash of liquor.

'Did you...' Malfoy wet his lips, eyes low as he paused. 'Have you... have you seen my son do anything at all out of the ordinary?'

'Like-- what?'

'Anything at all unlike his usual behaviour.'

'He's been a little moody all term,' Harry answered catiously. 'It... honestly I thought it was because of what happened last year. With Voldemort.'

Most wizards flinched when Harry said the name. Most times Harry said it, it was because he forgot they would-- he just couldn't keep it in his mind, and in his gut he thought it was a little silly to be so afraid of a name, even if he knew now there was more reason for it than met the eye. But he hadn't forgot this time. And Malfoy's wince was more than a reflex. Or at least more than just the sort of cringe you made when something startled you because it was unexpected. Malfoy looked as though he were in real pain.

'No,' Malfoy said hollowly. 'My son hasn't forgiven me for that, and he may never. But there's something more.'

So. No more tip-toeing round the truth. It was time for answers. Harry said, 'You mean the black book.'

'You know?'

'I saw you give it to Remus.' Harry clenched his hands in his lap, fingernails digging into his skin just enough to hurt. 'It's done something to him, you know. Something awful.'

'I do know,' Malfoy whispered. 'I think it's done the same thing to my son.'

'That's why you gave it to Remus. To be rid of it, and because you thought Remus could figure it out and warn someone. Scrimgeour, or even Dumbledore.' His fingernails broke skin, and the momentary sting became awareness of wet against the tips of his fingers. 'What is it, really? What's it do?'

'I don't know. Truly.'

'You wouldn't give a different answer under Veritaserum?' Harry said, echoing the words Scrimgeour had used on Harry himself. 'You would swear an oath? I know more of the truth than you do.'

The stare Malfoy turned on him was haunted, and maybe a little awed, too. 'How?' he breathed.

'How isn't important. Draco's the only important thing. Draco and Remus.'

Everyone jumped when Malfoy's hand shot out. Sirius came lunging, but he hesitated, wand suddenly in hand, when Malfoy only clawed Harry's arm across the table, knocking the whisky glass rolling, gripping Harry's hand in both of his. 'Believe me,' Malfoy husked. 'Believe me, Master Harry, I did not know. I could not know. I was not in my Lord's inner circle, though I must admit-- must admit I wanted to be. My father wanted me to be. He had been, he was one of the earliest supporters of my Lord, and my path was fore-ordained. It was up to me to live up to that. I wanted...'

'Power,' Sirius said flatly, and did make his move finally, separating Malfoy from Harry with a yank. 'Wealth. To be at the top standing on the necks of everyone below you, just to prove you could. I know. Dear ole Mum and Dad made it our childhood catechism. Stop making excuses and tell us about the damn book.'

'I didn't even know we had it at the Manor til a message came. This past spring. To bring it to Hogwarts.'

'When?' Harry asked, somehow knowing the answer was going to be important.

Malfoy's lips formed the answer before he found the voice to speak it. 'The night the Dark Lord invaded the school.'

Yes. Harry knew, then. 'Who opened the floo that night, so Voldemort could get into the castle? Who Imperiused you? Who Imperiused Draco to fight for Voldemort?'

'How can you know?' Malfoy sat back in his chair, shaken. His hands trembled on the table. 'Peter Pettigrew,' he said.

Sirius went very still. 'What did you say?'

'I don't know how long he'd been there. I didn't even know he was my contact at first. I recognised him from the newspapers. I'd never known him, personally. I didn't know-- I believed, everyone believed, you were the one secretly in the Dark Lord's service.'

'Peter.' Sirius jerked to life like a puppet, all discoordinated limbs. He turned away. He grabbed the whisky bottle and went out the door. It didn't quite swing shut behind him, and Harry could hear him clattering down the steps, away from the house.

'We need to find Draco,' Harry said, when the pressure got to be too much. 'I think... I think Draco might be the one doing bad things at Hogwarts. He could have done all of them-- Colin, Colin is the one that makes the most sense, Colin was always following me, out at night even trying to-- Draco knew that, Draco could have followed him, or Colin was following Draco.' Harry scraped his teeth over his lip, biting down. 'Mr Filch, I don't know why he would have killed Mr Filch, except maybe that it made everyone suspect Percy. Then Penelope Clearwater. I don't know why Draco would even know her. I only barely knew her, she was supposed to be my tutor. If it didn't have anything to do with me, then I don't know why Draco would have hurt her at all. And Remus.' This was the hardest to say. 'He liked Remus, I thought. Admired him. And he knows how important Remus is to me.'

What Malfoy thought of that was impossible to say. It was a strange thing, but the longer Harry talked, the more Malfoy regained his composure. By the last word Malfoy was all ice, locked away behind shutters preventing even the slightest sliver of emotion. There was a long minute in which he didn't move even to breathe, and Harry trailed off, wondering at it. Malfoy lifted a hand, but not in panic this time. He righted the whisky glass. Set it aside, out of harm's way. He said, 'What do you want from me.'

'Want?'

'What do you _want_ , Master Harry. You cannot have forgot that I once leveraged several favours from you when I thought you were too weak to prevent me. You have me over a barrell, as your Muggle kin would say. And I doubt very much there are any Nicolas Flamels about who will swoop in to save my sorry hide. So. Ask. I have no means to refuse you.'

'I don't want anything,' Harry began.

'Even now an Auror who has no reason to be kindly disposed toward my fate is making contact with people who have every reason to want me very deeply buried, you are not so naive to mistake that. Your guardian would just as happily see me in his place in Azkaban, especially if any harm befalls his lover. Rufus Scrimgeour's not above making deals to enhance his career, and I have no doubt he'll take money, introductions, and secrets in payment for a good word to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and his allies in the Wizengamot. I have nothing Albus Dumbledore wants-- or, rather, I fear I have exactly what he wants, and I don't know if I have it in me to give. My only hope is to be saved by someone who has the power to plead my case at the highest level. You.'

'I don't know anyone important. No-one would important would listen to me.'

'If you seek to drive your price higher, you have no need. I will give anything. You must see that.'

'I don't want anything,' Harry said forcefully. 'I just want to help Draco, he's my friend. I just want Remus to be safe.'

'That is not the way the world works,' Malfoy steadily overrode him.

'Then it should.'

A knock at the kitchen door prevented any further arguing. Harry turned, hoping for Sirius, but it was Tonks instead, looking somehow grimmer than usual in camoflage jeans and a black hoodie, even if the hoodie did read 'Frankie Says Relax'. Her hair shifted from a pointy pink mohawk to a shoulder-length bob in a dark auburn, which she tucked behind her ears as she came in. She greeted Harry with a squeeze to the shoulder, and a cool nod to Malfoy.

'No-one was aware Draco didn't intend to go home for the hols,' she reported. 'Apparently one of his little girlfriends asked him about, a--' She checked a notepad from her pocket. 'Millicent Bulstrode. Gregory Goyle overheard the conversation and Draco apparently replied that all was well and she shouldn't worry about him. She seemed satisfied with that answer, said it was good he wasn't fighting with his parents anymore. He said no, they weren't fighting at all now, and soon everything was going to be perfect.' Her eyes canted up to Malfoy. 'Any idea what that means, everything's going to be perfect?'

The ice in Malfoy's eyes cracked, just a little. 'I can only imagine.'

'I think we should get Dobby,' Harry said. 'And go to the school. I think we need to do something, now, and--'

'Hold up, there's no "we" in this,' Tonks interrupted. 'You're a twelve year old boy.'

'Draco's my friend,' Harry protested hotly, shaking off her hand. 'And Dobby will talk to me.'

'Dobby will talk to his owner just fine.'

'Then why hasn't he all along? He can't trust anyone to care about Draco the way he does. He won't believe you really have his best interests at heart, he won't. You can threaten him and he'll try to do what you order him to, but--'

'But what? Isn't that enough?'

'But Mr Malfoy's not the only one giving him orders, is he? How long has he been with your family, Mr Malfoy? Whose elf was he before?'

The ice cracked a little bit more, to reveal horror beneath. 'My father purchased Dobby,' Malfoy said, and went so white he nearly swayed in his seat.

'Abraxas Malfoy?' Tonks watched warily, clearly thinking she was going to be called upon to administer a mediwitch's duties, not just an Auror's. 'Christ, this is generations building, isn't it?' Her lips thinned, and she pressed her lips tight together, and made a decision. 'We need to call the Order together. And you need to come clean, Lucius. Everything you know. And everything we might be facing when we get to Hogwarts.'

Malfoy nodded faintly. 'Yes,' he mumbled, almost inaudibly. 'Yes. I will.'

'Get dressed,' Tonks told Harry. 'I'll fetch Sirius. And you,' she told Malfoy pointedly, 'you better have a little more of whatever was in that glass. I think you're gonna need it.'


	16. Soul Split

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which We Long For The Familiar, And Complain When We Get It._

Dobby's droopy ears pricked slightly as he wrung his hands. 'Harry Potter has called for Dobby?' he asked, tone ticking more eager than cringeing for the first time since he'd been summoned to Beddgelert.

Malfoy's scowl put the cringe right back in Dobby's shoulders, however. ' _Master_ Harry Potter has questions for you,' Malfoy said darkly, 'and you will answer to the best of your ability, whether you think it will please me or not.'

'Whether... whether...'

Seeing Dobby was struggling with this extraordinary task, Harry stepped in before anyone else could speak. 'It's important, Dobby,' he encouraged the house elf gently. 'It's about Draco, and it's so very important we know everything you can tell us. Will you? Tell us everything?'

Dobby's big knuckles cracked over each other, but his ears rose another inch. 'Dobby will try,' he agreed quietly, and had himself a big breath for courage when Harry smiled at him.

'Let's sit, then,' Harry said, ignoring the range of response his faux pas elicited from the adults who had filled his house. Kingsley Shacklebolt murmured something to Tonks, who only looked bemused; Sirius rolled his eyes a little, but Harry was sure that was more to do with Sirius's lifetime of experience of the wretched old house elf at Grimmauld Place. Scrimgeour's bushy eyebrows rose over calculating eyes, and Mrs Malfoy's porcelain-like face held no expression at all, as if she'd gone someplace cold and dark where no-one could see her and she saw nothing at all that went on around her. Mr Malfoy was too well-mannered to cross his arms over his chest, but he stood so stiffly his impotent fury was like a silent scream. Still, none of them stopped Harry leading Dobby to the chintz couch in the sitting room. Dobby climbed up like the small child he appeared, all knees and elbows, sniffing a cushion and rubbing the edge of a yellowed lace doily against his cheek. His bare legs stuck out like sticks from the mangy hem of his tea towel toga, protruding over the edge of the cushion, and he looked shy and delighted to be sat there with Harry, who took the spot beside him and faced him directly. 'Would you like a cup of tea?' Harry asked.

'Just order him to answer your questions, you don't have to cosset him,' Sirius muttered, but Harry ignored that too.

'Dobby has never had tea,' the elf whispered, big eyes going even wider.

'I'd never had any til last year. I like it with fresh milk and two sugars.'

'Dobby will have two sugars,' Dobby said eagerly, squirming a bit in excitement. 'Just like Harry Potter.'

'I'll get it,' Tonks said, and disappeared toward the kitchen. She returned so quickly that Harry knew she'd only charmed the kettle, and Kingsley had to rescue the tray before she dropped it when she tripped on the rug. Harry made a point of stirring in his sugar cubes and sipping slowly as Dobby slurped loudly, in between cradling the cup like it was the crown jewels and beaming so hard all his crooked teeth showed. By the time the adults all huffed and went after tea of their own, Dobby had lost the cowed hunch of his back and chattered brightly at Harry about everything from the lovely curtains to the lovely view beyond the windows to the lovely pattern of Harry's knitted jumper, which had come in Ron's package by way of Mrs Weasley, with a giant 'H' emblazoned on the front in Gryffindor colours. Harry thanked him and promised to pass on the compliments, and Dobby nearly swooned with delight.

Harry lowered his half-emptied cup to its saucer and rested it on his knee. More soberly, he said, 'Dobby, did you know that Draco's run away?'

Ears that had gone nearly pointed to the ceiling like a rabbit's twitched uncertainly. 'Master Draco has run away from Hogwarts?' Dobby hesitated. 'Then... then Master Draco is safe?'

'No, I don't think he is.' Harry chewed his lip, thinking. 'Dobby, you said you'd be watching. Did you stop watching us?'

'Dobby is a bad elf!'

'Dobby is doing the best he can,' Harry corrected, then grimaced at himself for falling into the elf's funny way of speaking. 'No, don't hurt yourself, I don't like you doing that. I just wanted to know if you stopped for some reason. Give me that tea before you spill it.'

Dobby had managed the athletic feat of twisting up one leg to beat himself about the head with his ankle and paused in the act of delivering his bulbous nose a solid kick. He let his leg fall, but still a whimper escaped him as Harry set his cup and saucer aside. 'Dobby was told not to.'

'By who?'

'By Master Malfoy.'

'I issued no such order,' Malfoy contradicted him immediately.

Dobby shrunk in on himself at once, undoing all the effort of relaxing him. 'Old Master,' he whispered. 'Master Abraxas ordered Dobby to stop.'

'And how can a dead man do that?' Scrimgeour wondered, as if he were only mildly curious, but his eyes were keener than ever, keen as a shark's, and he was looking at the Malfoys, not at the house elf.

Unexpectedly, however, it was Sirius who answered, with a sour sneer. 'Dead man, dead woman, take your pick,' he said. 'Mum's portrait's been issuing orders all this time I was in Azkaban. Kreacher keeps moaning on about "Mistress says" and I know he tattles everything to her the minute I take my eye off him. It wouldn't be the first time an elf took their pick of masters vying for the title.'

'Can this really be at all common?' Kingsley stood blinking as that sank in. 'I thought the service bond just passed on death, like deeds and other magical possessions?'

'The bond is to the household in perpetuity,' Sirius shrugged. 'It's why the Ministry couldn't separate Kreacher from the Black properties even when they seized our estates. So long as there was a Black living, the little blighter's bound to us. But it wouldn't be the first time an elf stayed loyal to someone they perceived to be the heir even if the household is held by someone else.'

All Harry could pick out of that was the notion Dobby's many eccentricities appeared to include a different understanding of the Malfoy family hierarchy than the Malfoys themselves enjoyed. And, judging by the way Mr Malfoy was colouring, then paling, then colouring again, this was a shame in and of itself. Mrs Malfoy only looked more remote than ever.

'Does Mr Abraxas have a portrait somewhere?' Harry asked Dobby, trying to keep things on track before Dobby lost his nerve.

'I had all his portraits destroyed,' Mr Malfoy spat. 'And I took great pleasure telling him that on his deathbed. Not a shred of that man remains on this earth, not even his ashes. I scattered them to the rankest sewers I could find, and gladly.'

Dobby shrank against the cushions. 'Dobby found it in the attic,' he managed at a volume just barely audible. 'Dobby was not looking on purpose! Dobby never means to be a bad elf.'

'The attic? I searched the attic for anything he'd ever so much as breathed on--'

'Cease this tiresome blustering,' Mrs Malfoy told her husband suddenly. 'You're embarrassing yourself, Lucius.'

The sheer novelty of hearing her voice shut everyone up, even Dobby, who stopped whinging under his breath and gawped like the rest of them. Mr Malfoy looked at his wife as if he'd never seen her before.

Mrs Malfoy rose from her chair, smoothing the crushed satin of her white robe. 'I find men can be extremely shortsighted and yet utterly convinced of their own brilliance, don't you?' she said to her niece quite casually. Tonks did not look particularly thrilled to be acknowledged at last-- despite her overtures to Draco, Tonks had kept a wise distance from Narcissa, and even now Tonks' face was coming over hard, her jaw set. 'Lucius was too wrapped up in gloating over his father's demise to tend to the family's interests. As I have so many times in our marriage, I took up the responsibility. I had a death masque made and sealed it with Abraxas's last breath. I hid it in my bedroom-- a place you did not search, dear husband, though anyone with half a brain ought to have inspected it first. But you don't make a habit of intruding on my bed, do you? Your tastes have always been a little more exotic.'

Kingsley gave off a mute whistle at this. Sirius looked torn between glee at witnessing his despised relatives airing their dirty laundry and unwilling empathy as Mr Malfoy glared at his wife. Scrimgeour only watched, as Scrimgeour always did.

Tonks was the one who put a stop to it. 'You can finish cuckolding him later,' she said bluntly, and matched Mrs Malfoy stare for grim stare. 'We've got a missing boy to find, and your politics are really beside the point.'

'Unfortunately, the politics are the point.' Mrs Malfoy clasped her dainty hands at her slender waist. 'The Blacks are Pureblood going back fifty-six generations. Yet our decline was hastened by inbreeding and insanity. I watched all around me manifest disease and madness in any number of ways; my elder sister is a psychopath, the next eldest a race traitor breeding Mudbloods. My father died young and whatever was done to my mother to silence her endless rants, it was never admitted where an officer of the court might overhear. Uncle Cygnus drank and whored himself into an early grave, and Aunt Walburga never recovered from her father's lecherous attentions-- or so I heard from Regulus, who couldn't keep her out of his bed. Is it any wonder Cousin Sirius would defect from that cesspool to find himself a new House? Only he took his infection with him. He has sunk to something even more vile than incest and calls a cursed beast his lover--'

'Bitch,' Sirius snarled, and Kingsley only just restrained him in time to halt the trajectory of his hand for Narcissa's fragile face. Her pointed chin turned up with a proud sneer, and she didn't flinch even as Sirius struggled with Kingsley for his wand.

'It was up to me to salvage what I could of our honour and our blood,' she said, speaking over his sputtering as if he barely deserved the acknowledgement. 'The Malfoys had money and connections, if not a line of any great consequence. Once, others would have paid far more for a Black bride, but by the time Cousin Sirius was flaunting his disinheritance I knew my value would decline rapidly. I made Abraxas a bargain brideprice. And that might have been enough to salvage both the Malfoys and the Blacks, if not for my husband's determined lack of competence. Of course the house elf doesn't consider him the true head of the household. A rat would do better. A rat did do better. Peter Pettigrew managed to identify the Dark Lord months before Albus Dumbledore and sent for a number of artefacts the Dark Lord had hidden amongst his followers. My dearest husband managed to fluff a simple delivery. The diary remained at Malfoy Manor, when it should have gone to Hogwarts and its master. So I gave it to my son to deliver instead.'

Dobby made a little noise of pain. Harry turned to find him yanking at his ears fit to tear them out of his scalp. Harry stopped him and held his hands still when Dobby tried to raise them again. 'You knew the diary was evil,' Harry guessed. 'That's why you were glad when Mr Malfoy sent Draco away. You knew the diary would do something Dark.'

'Of course I did,' Narcissa answered, as if Harry had been talking to her. 'But I...' Her pause was infinitesimal, the dryness in her voice only momentarily stifling her steady speech. 'I did not believe He would use it to harm my child. So I told my son nothing, and put my worries aside when he began to distance himself from me. He has never once lied to me. I believed I would know if the diary began to corrupt him.'

'Corrupt him.' Mr Malfoy stroked a thumb over the silver bauble of his cane, head bowed over it. Abruptly he twisted the clasp, removing the wand from the stick, and a moment later Mrs Malfoy was reeling away with a cry, crumpling against the wall. Scrimgeour had Mr Malfoy at wandpoint almost immediately, and Tonks bent over her aunt with a firm  _Finite_ , ending the curse that rippled over Mrs Malfoy's body in a sickly wash of gungy orange. Mr Malfoy calmly put up his wand, and brushed aside Scrimgeour's threat. 'You are to be congratulated, my dear. You are a Black to your fingertips. Corruption is all you have ever known.'

'What was that spell?' Tonks demanded, trying to support Mrs Malfoy into a seated incline, only to have her hands batted away. Mrs Malfoy's long dark hair hung in her face, and she clawed her way upright with her head turned away from all of them. No-one stopped her stumbling for the Floo, though Tonks looked torn. 'What did you do to her?'

'She'll be able to reverse it, I daresay,' Mr Malfoy shrugged indifferently. 'The Soul-Blight Revelation will keep her indoors where she belongs til then.'

'That's Dark magic, Malfoy,' Scrimgeour pointed out, not yet lowering his own wand.

'Grey, at most,' Malfoy said, meeting his eyes. 'And would have done nothing to her, if she had no blight to reveal. Dobby. If you will not obey me, I have no choice but to cast you out.'

'Wh-- that'll kill him,' Tonks protested. 'We need him!'

But Harry thought he followed Mr Malfoy's thoughts on this. So long as Dobby was bound to the Malfoys, Abraxas-- whatever spark of Abraxas was left-- would also come first in Dobby's loyalties. But if an elf was freed, he would only die if he couldn't find another house to belong to.

'Dobby,' Harry said, sure he was reading this aright. 'Would you like to come work for Lord Potter? There's an awfully big house that hasn't been cared for in several years.'

Dobby's jaw hung so low it was nearly to his navel. 'Harry Potter wishes to buy Dobby?'

Harry was not comfortable with the idea of buying anybody. 'Pay you a good wage,' he said weakly. 'If you'd like it. You'd be doing an awful lot of hard work, after all. There's all sorts of strange things at the Potter Manor that need looking after.'

'Dobby would be _paid_?' The little elf slid off the couch to the floor, right onto his knees, glazed over in shock. 'Dobby would be... Dobby would be a _free_ elf, paid a wage?'

'You may come to regret that transaction, Master Harry,' Mr Malfoy said. 'He's never been a particularly bright servant. But it would seem he's eager enough for the post.' He removed his gloves from his belt, looking them over with a distaste and a regret and a muted loathing that was all about the humiliation he'd just endured from his wife, the revelation of his son's endangerment, the powerlessness to do anything but expose all his secrets to people who might thank him for it with the point of a wand. But he did it. He tossed the gloves to Dobby.

Who caught them on instinct, only to gape. 'Clothes,' he said dumbly, shattered. 'Dobby has been given clothes.'

'You are dismissed from the Malfoy family, Dobby.'

'And hired by the Potters,' Harry finished, and for once didn't mind a house elf going all to pieces on him. Dobby honked his streaming nose in the hem of his toga, eyes leaking fat tears of joy. 'And your first job is to help us find Draco.'

'I will, Harry Potter! I will.'

The rush of the Floo activating drew everyone's attention away from Dobby's blubbering. 'That'll be Narcissa with a counter-hex,' Tonks guessed glumly, and she went into the next room with a wary wand, but the sound of male voices answering her hail turned everyone's head. Tonks came back leading Mr Weasley and Percy, of all people.

'Ah, Kingsley, and... and Chief Auror,' Mr Weasley said, looking a bit paler than usual. 'Malfoy. I didn't expect-- quite a company you've got for Christmas, Black.'

'Potter,' Sirius corrected impatiently. 'We're rather in the middle of something, Arthur, and I wasn't planning on paying or receiving calls.'

'No, quite right, very sorry to intrude, only we've been having something of a fuss over in Ottery St Catchpole, haven't we, Perce. We thought-- well, we thought it was time to share a bit of information.' Mr Weasley's eyes kept roaming back to Scrimgeour, and he looked distinctly nervous. 'Don't want to intrude, though,' he said again, gripping Percy's shoulder. 'We can come back--'

'No, Dad,' Percy said, removing himself from his father's hold. 'I don't care even if the Aurors do arrest me.'

That took everyone aback a bit. 'And why would we be arresting you, young man?' Scrimgeour wondered. 'After you've maintained quite adamantly that you had nothing to do with any of the attacks at Hogwarts.'

'But I did.' Percy swallowed hard, his adam's apple bobbing like a birdie stuck in his pale throat, but his voice emerged steady for all the fear evident in his clenched fists. 'I didn't do it, I've already sworn to that, but I know who did.'

Scrimgeour stopped Harry interjecting with a repressive glance. 'This would be the memory you chose not to provide us,' he said.

'I need to tell you all something,' Percy went on with barely a pause, as if he were reading from a speech he'd memorised, til he faltered at last. 'But... but you, most of all, Lord Potter.'

Sirius blinked at this, sitting straighter. 'Me? All right, son. I'm listening.'

'It's about my rat.' Percy's voice failed him. But Mr Weasley only nodded, and anyway the look on Sirius's face, seized up suddenly keen and dreading and dreadfully certain, was all the prodding Percy needed. 'My rat, Scabbers. I've had him since I was a boy. But... but I've known for a long time he wasn't just a rat, and who he really is is... who he really is is important. Now more than ever.'

No-one laughed. It hung there discordantly, Percy's declaration, and Scrimgeour's face was a study of conflicting emotion, but Harry was looking past both of them to Mr Weasley. Who wasn't laughing at all, and was watching his son with something tragic, as if he'd lost Percy for all Percy was only two steps away from him. The same way Mr Malfoy had looked, talking about Draco and the diary.

And then Harry remembered. _I need to borrow the rat, Harry._ And Remus forgetting about it afterward. And his loft, all destroyed as if there'd been a fight, and the sound of little claws on the floorboards, running toward him.

Moony, Padfoot, Prongs, and--

'Wormtail,' Harry whispered, as Percy said it on the other side of the room, and their eyes met as all the adults burst into a chorus of dismayed protests.

 

 

 

Rita Skeeter, Harry couldn't help but think, would have been awfully sorry to miss this story.

A history some twenty years in the making was unfolding now. It was like a jigsaw puzzle all spillt out on the floor, the pieces jumbled and overturned and upside down and being slowly sorted into place. Only for every piece solved there was another discovered, and it was slow, frustrating, and altogether useless.

Harry listened with half an ear. It wasn't that it was dull or uninteresting; indeed, it felt much like last year, when he'd only begun to realise who Sirius Black was and that Sirius might innocent of the dreadful crime of betraying his parents to Voldemort. In those days it had all been little more than an idea to him, even his parents were only images on a page he'd barely begun to comprehend. Peter Pettigrew had been less than that, a name, a name in a story that Harry only half understood. Harry thought now he'd understood even less than that, of something so old and costly and horrible. But at this particular moment, he didn't care much about the truth, or how all the pieces fit together, or even about why all the people involved had done what they'd done.

Why Peter Pettigrew had fallen in with Harry's dad and Sirius and Remus in school, and how the Marauders had been forged out of a talent for mischief and wizardry, why they'd driven each other to ambitious new heights. Why they'd truly come together in the vow to save Remus from his dark curse, by secretly becoming animagi so they could spend the nights of the full moon with him as a stag, a dog, a rat, safe from a werewolf's bite. Why their bond had made them feel invincible, til the war had begun in earnest and no amount of genius could save them from dragon pox or Death Eaters.

Why Peter had been able to convince them all that Remus must be the mole in the Order of the Phoenix-- Remus, who of all men had reason to fall under the Dark Lord's sway, when he promised an end to the old order of things that had exiled werewolves and goblins and giants and vampires and all those things that didn't fit into the civilised society wizards jealously kept for themselves. Why the Potters had begun to believe the Dark Lord hunted them especially, Lily Potter who had written hundreds of new spells that were keeping the Order safe from the Dark Lord's forces, James who had brought down dozens of Death Eaters in battle, Harry who like a hundred children born to defiant witches and wizards was a vulnerability, marked merely for existing, defenceless in his creche to any man with a wand who might slip through the wards and utter the killing curse. Why Sirius had fretted he was too well-known to bear the Secret of the Potters' hiding place, when the Death Eaters were known all throughout Britain for the savagery of their torture, when strong men broke and went mad under their curses and gave away greater secrets than that. Why Sirius had gone a bit mad himself, when he'd seen the Potter's little house in Godric's Hollow blasted to splinters and the bodies of his dearest friends amidst the rubble, and had left Harry there with Hagrid and gone after Peter alone, why in that moment of losing his loved ones Sirius had chosen vengeance over his godson and lost everything else.

Why Peter had duelled Sirius and known he could not win and so faked his death, and run away under the cover of an explosion that murdered a dozen Muggles. Why Peter had sought sanctuary somewhere no-one might think to look for him, safe in the house of a family dedicated to the Light, affiliated with Albus Dumbledore and his Order and yet not so close to that inner circle that they would know there was a man who could be a rat when he chose. Why no-one had fussed much when a four year old boy found a new pet in the garden, and wanted to keep it; there was too much grief in those days, and anything that kept Percy happy and out of the way was a good thing and not worth much notice.

Why Percy, clever and lonely in that big busy house had begun to suspect his pet might be more than he seemed. Why he'd never told anyone about the strange dreams he had, of a man who sat beside his bed in the middle of the night and told him stories, stories about a stag and a wolf and dog and a rat that adventured their way across a midnight forest. Why, even as he'd grown up and heard the story of mad Sirius Black murdering poor Peter Pettigrew, and seen the pictures and wondered about his strange dreams, he'd said nothing; and why he'd said nothing when Harry Potter came at last to Hogwarts and Sirius Black had broken out of Azkaban to hunt him he'd thought it couldn't possibly be true, could it; and why the revelation of Sirius Black's innocence and Peter Pettigrew's guilt had at last been incontrovertible and yet Percy held back what he now believed must be true. Why he'd loved his pet Scabbers, who after all had never done him a harm all these years, and had been a sort of confidante to Percy's teenage worries about being good enough, being his own man in a family chock-full of sons each brilliant in their own way, better than Percy, cleverer than Percy, braver than Percy, who was only brave enough to whisper in the dark of night that he knew Peter's secret and he would do something, must do something, mustn't he, if Peter didn't.

Why that had been the day he'd found himself standing over Argus Filch's body, hands covered in blood, and known it for the warning it was.

Harry, though, could only think of what the whys were not telling them. Why did not tell him more than he already knew-- that Pettigrew had realised who Quirrell was, and begun to aid him as he could, like opening the Floos the night Voldemort had attacked Hogwarts. Why did not tell him what the diary had done to Draco and then to Remus. Why did not tell him where they were now and what was being done to them. And Harry was full of a great impatience, a nagging itch to be up, running, _doing_ that why was not at all sufficient to ease. He didn't care about _why._ He only cared about _next._

When he said, 'What's the Chamber, then?' everyone arguing above his head abruptly stopped, and they all turned to look at him.

'The Chamber of Secrets,' Scrimgeour repeated thoughtfully. 'Yes, the Chamber from the messages writ in blood. Do you know anything about that, young Mr Weasley?'

'No, sir,' Percy mumbled, twisting the hem of his jumper all out of shape with his worrying. It looked just like Harry's, more knitting from Mrs Weasley, only with a P in place of Harry's H. 'When Mum and Dad took me out of school after Mr Filch was killed, Scabbers got left behind. So I never could ask him.'

'And who is Tom Riddle? It's his diary and why did he get an award for school services and what does Hagrid have to do with any of it? And none of that tells us anything about where Draco and Remus have gone.'

Everyone looked at everyone else. Not even Scrimgeour had answers for that, nor his Aurors, nor Sirius nor Mr Malfoy. Even Dobby could only shake his head helplessly when Harry looked at him.

'All we know for sure is it's at Hogwarts,' Harry said. 'The Chamber and the black book and Scabbers and Draco and Remus. So why are we all standing about here?'

Sirius issued a barking laugh at this. 'You're your father's son,' he said. 'And you're damned right. Let's go.'

Scrimgeour grimaced. 'Reluctant as I am to agree with yon impetuous pair, I think I must.'

'Good,' Harry said fiercely. 'Finally.'


	17. History Says

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which We Are Who We Have Been, All Along._

Wizards, Harry was being forcibly reminded, were nothing at all like normal people. They had the queerest notions about things normal folk quite readily navigated with a little common sense, and took for granted the most astounding magics as though they were irreducible facts, not a violation of nature and physics. Albus Dumbledore was the most wizarding wizard Harry had ever met, and the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards was intent on straining even the credulity of wizards long accustomed to his arcane and impenetrable ways.

Apparently the Sorting Hat was quite the engaging conversationalist. Dumbledore was in no hurry to remove it and speak to the several humans all clamouring for his attention, at any rate. He was sat on his throne-like chair at his desk, lazily twirling his long beard about the tip of his wand, and ignoring the strident calls for his attention in favour of the Hat, which perched low on his head like a moth-eaten sack, twitching now and then as Dumbledore nodded.

'Gése,' he said. 'Déorcynn. Ne bið swilc earges sið. Ic ne mæg ðinra worda ne wisma wuht oncnawan siðes ne sagena-- Helrúna... nædre... wyrm... þrówend. Gése. A síþ. A soþ. Secgan hwelc siððan wearð herewulfa sið. Heo hæfde seofon-- um beorhtran sawle...'

Harry tugged at Snape's sleeve. Snape gave him a scowling glance, but his ire was, for once, not on Harry but for the serenely babbling man whom they had all come in vain to see. 'What?' Snape asked, removing his sleeve from temptation by crossing his arms over his chest.

'Is he cursed? That's all nonsense.'

'It is the Anglo-Saxon dialect commonly described as "Old English",' Snape corrected him, but his scowl dragged deeper. 'That does not preclude it being nonsense.'

'The Founders would have spoken Old English,' McGonagall said, from Snape's other side. Harry's head of house was concerned, no less than Snape, though she hid it better, confining herself to tapping her fingers soundlessly. 'It was Godric Gryffindor's hat.'

'He's talking to the hat?' Harry clarified, not sure that really relieved him. 'The Hat spoke normal English when I talked to it.'

Heads turned. Several heads. Even Mr Malfoy looked at him. Even Percy.

'Of course you did,' Sirius sighed. 'Merlin forbid you do anything the normal way.'

'Harry's an extraordinary boy,' Lockhart declaimed, yanking Harry in for a one-armed embrace that proved difficult to escape, leaving Harry battling the slippery ribbons of Lockhart's frilly robe as they clung to his face. 'A natural affinity for the magical mysteries-- like mentor, like mentee, eh, my lad?'

Harry blushed, flustered at this. He spat out a bit of lace and said, 'So the Hat... can it learn, then? And it makes up its own songs for every Welcome Feast. Can it think?' Thinking about it confused Harry, certainly. 'Didn't one of Rita Skeeter's articles say something about the Hat?'

'Gryffindor enchanted his hat to speak, yes,' Snape confirmed, eyeing Lockhart with a little sneer. 'It is an extremely complex magic, much more sophisticated than the spellwork to enchant a talking portrait, for instance, though not unrelated. It's been debated for centuries whether Gryffindor merely imbued the Hat with a bit of his own essence or in fact created a free-thinking, even sentient lifeform.'

'But, er... why is Dumbledore talking to the Hat now, then? Can the Hat find Draco and Remus?'

Snape didn't have an answer for that one. His grimace was all the more fearsome for having gone so long unappeased. He glowered at everything and everyone equally. Harry took a wise step back out of his range.

Much to Harry's dismay, there had been nothing so easy about going straight to Hogwarts to investigate for themselves. Adults, Harry thought critically, spent far too much time on details, and he was in no mood for it. Much of the arguing had been about who was to be invited along, which Harry correctly interpreted as a desire to tell as few official sorts as possible, and Harry had retreated to his bedroom to let them finish debating on their own. Harry had had time enough whilst they were at it for a wash and a change, and preparations of his own sort. He'd donned an old pair of jeans and a Crowhill hoodie-- he had to shoo Dobby out when Dobby started rifling through Harry's undershorts, and sent him to make sandwiches for everyone. He still missed his tatty trainers, never recovered after his disastrous encounter with the rogue Bludger. He'd doubled up his wool socks and laced his new trainers taut about his feet except in the toes, making sure they had room to wiggle well. He stashed his wand in his back pocket. That, he'd supposed, was as good as he could do to prepare for the unknown. No. On second thought, Harry opened his trunk and found his school robes, but not to wear them. He removed the lapel pin Lyall had given him, the Welsh lion. He didn't know quite why he wanted it on him, except perhaps as a talisman of sorts. His mum's wand, his grandfather's pin, his childhood clothes. It was armour, or the closest he could go in a pinch. All the pieces of himself.

They were met at Hogwarts' gates by Professors McGonagall and Lockhart, who immediately answered for his dubious presence by asserting he'd been at Hogwarts enjoying the quiet of the break to work on his newest book-- he dropped several hints that its contents featured Harry heavily-- and McGonagall dropped several hints that Lockhart had insisted on coming and wouldn't be got rid of, gracefully or un. Snape was there as well, and Bill Weasley who stood beside Snape looking a bit wary of being bitten or poisoned, with Snape all rigid pique and refusing to dignify Bill by addressing him directly. Tonks walked between the two men, tripping on the occasional root or pebble in her path, and blushing as she accepted Snape's arm, offered just a smidge before Bill could do the same. They were an uncomfortable trio. Scrimgeour had summoned only one of his Aurors who weren't also Order of the Phoenix, a choice Harry noted and wondered at. Savage kept to himself and spoke only to his Chief, but he fingered his wand as if such a dubious company gave him itchy fingers.

Or maybe he just sensed the potential for something explosive. Mr Malfoy and Mr Weasley walked along beside each other, with only a few stilted words here and there. Percy walked with his eyes on his feet, his shoulders about his ears. Harry had tried to walk with him some, but Percy was busy being as miserable as Harry had ever seen a person be, and Harry got no more than a grunt or a nod from him. Dobby monopolised Harry at any rate, which at least spared Harry Lockhart's attention. Dobby was enjoying every scrap of his new freedom to the hilt, talking a mile a minute about anything that came to his mind. Harry had Dobby's entire geneaology from mother to grandmother to great-grandmother to great-great and great-great-great and as far back as Dobby would recite, as all house elves were taught to do, back to the very first of their kin who'd been bonded to a wizard. When he learnt that Harry hadn't even known his own parents or grandparents' names til he came into the wizarding world, Dobby sniffled mightily, tears standing in his eyes. 'But then Harry Potter does not know his own story,' Dobby marvelled, and reached up to pat Harry's hand consolingly. 'But wizards write many stories in books, Harry Potter. Maybe Dobby will find it for Harry Potter in his grand house.'

'Maybe,' Harry said, casting a lingering look on Sirius, who marched ahead of all of them as if he were striding toward his death. Or to deliver someone else's death to them. Sirius appeared totally absorbed in planning something diabolical, painful, and brutally punishing for Peter Pettigrew, and whatever that plan was, he chewed over it with bleak relish, a dark smile hovering on his lips.

All that was quite enough to be getting on with, til they made their way indoors and to the Headmaster's office. Hogwarts had a stale, empty feel to it, unlike the previous Christmas when Harry had found its solitude charming and enticing. Even the air smellt different somehow-- no whiff of cinnamon and mischief, no scent of ancient parchment and older mysteries. Harry doubted his own senses til he noticed his two professors conferring in whispers. When Snape drew his wand, so did the Aurors, and Bill and Sirius were only a beat behind. Yet not even Lockhart dared break the silence. It was taut and unhappy as they rode the spiralling stone stairs in pairs to the door at the top, and gathered there at the landing for a long moment before McGonagall knocked briskly, and all entered.

And then it had been all standing about for an insufferably long time, watching Dumbledore talk to a hat and doing absolutely nothing about the problem which had united them all together.

Harry abandoned the muttering mill of adults and climbed the dais to Fawkes's perch. 'Hiyas, Fawkes,' he greeted the phoenix, taking the eager bird onto his arm. Fawkes rubbed his crest to Harry's cheek, cooing affectionately, and then imperiously squawking a demand for treats. Harry found a box of biscuits on a shelf nearby and fed him as many as he liked, thinking Dumbledore mightn't have had the attention to spare for it of late.

But even with Fawkes to occupy him Harry felt that itch at the back of his mind, and something restless in his hands and feet that wanted to be out running, looking, finding. He stood stroking the long scarlet feathers of Fawkes's wings. He was lost in his own thoughts, still petting the phoenix, when a hand gently covered his, and he looked up to find Dumbledore had joined him there, and now stood beside Harry a foot taller than usual due to the hat.

'I think we should take a walk, Mr Potter,' Dumbledore said, and Harry nodded without quite understanding, glad only to have finally reached the time for doing something.

'Albus,' McGonagall protested. 'We have the house elf here, Mr Malfoy would--'

'Not a very great distance,' Dumbledore murmured, squeezing Harry's hand and then lifting Fawkes to Harry's shoulder. 'At a good brisk clip the hospital wing is not so far away.'

'Hospital wing? You mean for all of us to troop across the school to--'

'Only we three,' Dumbledore said, in a tone that was not especially foreboding and yet stopped everyone short in their tracks. Only a piping voice from the vicinity of everyone's knees dared to protest.

'And Dobby?' the house elf asked hopefully. 'Dobby cannot work for Harry Potter if Harry Potter is gone from him.'

What Dumbledore thought of a house elf's logic, it did not show on his face until a small smile graced his lips. 'Quite true,' he said. 'We four, then. Await us, dear friends; we will return shortly.'

'Are we going to look for them in the hospital wing?' Harry asked, as they paced alone, bereft even of the usual denizens of portraits lining the halls. It was like wearing his invisibility cloak, going so unseen in a place that usually bulged with curious eyes.

'Brrrrrr,' Fawkes trilled softly, nudging his beak against Harry's cheek. Dobby, Harry thought, was sticking his tongue out at the phoenix, but stopped too quickly for Harry to be sure, and skipped along at Harry's side determinedly.

'We are not going to look,' Dumbledore answered calmly. 'We are going to be found.'

Harry's feet knew the way to the infirmary. He had spent more than enough time there to find it by habit, in the dark or in the light. It was starting to get a bit dim out the windows, night coming earlier and earlier as winter descended. Without a torch or wand to brighten their path, the shadows loomed long, and Harry shivered.

'Madam Pomfrey?' he dared to call, though not very loudly, as they let themselves through the door. Dumbledore stayed there, gazing about, as Harry trotted toward Pomfrey's office. The latch depressed at his touch, and he peered in, but the lights were out here, too, and it was empty. Harry turned next to the small private suite where Colin Creevey had been housed as he awaited the mandrake roots that would form his cure. It, too, was unlocked and dark. Harry freed his wand and touched it to a gas lamp that lay dormant. With a word of magic, the wick lit.

'Colin,' Harry said. He crouched beside the bed where Colin Creevey lay. He hesitated to touch, but Fawkes encouraged him with a chirrup. He flattened his hand to the strange icy texture of Colin's unmoving chest. 'But what's wrong with him?' Harry whispered, shaken. When Colin had been petrified he had still looked exactly like himself. But something had changed. Now he was like a shadow of himself-- like a shadow fading at the edges, there and not there, for all Harry could feel him with his fingers. He could see clear through Colin to the sheet beneath him.

'He's nearly used up.'

'He's dying?' Harry cleared his tight throat with a cough, and turned his head to look back at Dumbledore. But it wasn't Dumbledore. It was the ghost of the young man from Sir Nick's Death Day party. Drips of water fell toward the stone beneath his hovering feet and vanished before they landed; wet slicked his long hair and mud caked his boots and coat and would never dry. He really did look extraordinarily like Sirius.

'Not dying,' answered the ghost. 'There won't be anything left to die, at the end.'

'What-- what do you mean?'

Silver eyes gleamed in the dark. 'You're like him,' said the ghost.

Harry climbed to his feet. His wand was still in his hand, but he didn't know what he ought to do with it. The ghost was no threat, but Harry found his presence profoundly discomfiting in a way he'd never felt about Sir Nick or the other castle ghosts. They had never seemed so-- well, dead. 'I'm like who?' he asked. 'Colin?'

'Like _him_.' The ghost touched the gold locket strung about his neck. Then he reached into his coat and removed something else. A small black book.

'You have it?' Harry forgot his uneasiness and stepped toward the ghost, peering at it, already sure. 'Did you take it from Remus? Did you make him forget?'

'You can feel it, can't you? His touch. His filth.' The ghost put out a hand. Harry didn't notice til it was too late-- he looked up from the diary just as the ghost touched him. Touching ghostly matter was like putting one's tongue to ice-- it stung and froze and was unpleasant and surprising and a little worrying all in one. But in general that was the result of an accidental brush-up in the hall: ghosts did not seek to touch the living, having given up the habit along with others such as eating, sleeping, and breathing. But the ghost very deliberately put out a glowing hand and touched Harry's scar. Harry shivered.

'Him who? Who are you? Who-- who were you?'

'I don't know,' the ghost whispered helplessly. 'I only remember... I only remember this.' The locket. He hesitated, then pried it open at the clasp. The locket spilled ghost water, but the little roll of paper that tumbled from it was real, long dry. Harry caught it on its way to the floor.

'What is it?'

'I think... I think I wrote it.'

It was a message, yes, inked by a quill on a torn scrap of parchment. The handwriting was elegant, well-trained, like Draco or Pansy's; Purebloods wrote like that. Small and cramped as the message was, it was short and to the point.

' _To the Dark Lord,'_ Harry read aloud, ' _I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match you will be mortal once more.'_ It was signed 'RAB.'  


'Is that you?' Harry asked him, looking up. 'Are you RAB?'

'I think I must be.'

'And you knew the Dark Lord. Voldemort.' The ghost's pale lips formed the name in time with him. 'What's a Horcrux?'

'I don't know.'

'Don't suppose you know if you destroyed it, then, like you said you would.' It was an intriguing mystery, but a mystery all the same and one Harry had no time for at present. He rolled up the little scrap once more, and placed it back in the locket, clasping it carefully. The ghost gave up the diary, when Harry tugged it from his hand. It looked the same as when Harry had had it last, before he'd given it back to Remus, before Remus had lost it. Harry flipped through the blank pages and let it close, tracing the faded gilt on the cover. TM Riddle. 'I don't suppose you took this from a rat?'

'From the place that reeks of _him._ '

Harry nodded. 'Can you show me where? I think I had better know what else the rat's taken.'

'So you can destroy them?'

'Yes,' Harry said, and the ghost nodded. Harry nodded back to him.

Dumbledore had not stayed where Harry had left him. Fawkes had found a perch on the iron rail of one of the beds, his proud neck arched and his chest feathers fluffed. He greeted Harry with a beady eye gleaming in the reflected light of the ghost's aura, but did not speak. Instead his head turned, and Harry followed his stare to the Headmaster, who stood facing a corner.

'Professor?' Harry asked, coming to stand beside him. He was rocked in his steps when he saw what it was Dumbledore stood over. A body. It was Poppy Pomfrey, who lay sprawled in a mess of shattered glass-- the potions cabinet stood open not an arm's length from her prone form. And she was just like Colin, a form fading away, her dark eyes open and staring and hollow.

'Petrified,' Dumbledore murmured.

'And something else.'

'Yes.'

'Did anyone check on Penelope Clearwater?' Harry asked, dreading the answer.

'Just this morning I received confirmation from her parents. They have taken the girl to Saint Mungo's, but I am afraid her condition is beyond their knowledge, as well.' Dumbledore looked, when Harry touched his arm. He took the diary from Harry's hand. 'Ah,' he said.

'Do you know what it is?'

'I do, yes. I purchased it myself from Flourish and Blott's, some... oh, some fifty years ago. It was a Christmas gift, for a first year boy called Tom.'

'Yes, sir. Tom Riddle.' Harry bent over Madam Pomfrey, wishing he could do something for her. She had always been very kind to Harry. But he could not close her eyes, could not shift her crooked arms or neck from their unnatural angles. Dobby quietly fetched a blanket from the linen cupboard, and Harry nodded his gratitude, his throat tight, and covered her carefully. 'Who was he,' Harry asked, craning a look up at the Headmaster standing above him. 'Tom Riddle.'

'In 1937, he was only a boy who had no-one to give him a present.' Dumbledore opened it just shy of halfway through, and sighed to find it empty. 'It would be some years yet before he would come to prefer another name.'

'What other name?'

'Lord Voldemort,' Dumbledore replied, and gave Harry back the diary. 'As we are exchanging names, Harry, perhaps you could introduce me to your companion?'

Harry didn't reply immediately, digesting this new revelation. Curiously, though he never would have guessed it, he realised he wasn't at all surprised by it. Voldemort's diary would be evil incarnate, just as he was. No, he could not be surprised, not at all. 'Er... he reckons he's called RAB.'

'I see.' Dumbledore turned away from Madam Pomfrey, not without a sad frown. He faced the ghost, who hovered as ghosts did, faintly glowing. 'I see,' Dumbledore said again, more slowly, and more sadly still. 'Well. Mr RAB. I take it we owe the recovery of the diary to your intervention?'

The ghost glanced to Harry for reassurance. Harry nodded encouragingly. 'Yes,' RAB said. 'I... I found it. It called to me.'

'From where, may I ask?'

'A chamber.'

'Yes, I expected so.' Dumbledore paused, a lengthy pause that ended only when he took hold of the Sorting Hat still perched on his brow and removed it, tucking it beneath his arm. 'And in this chamber,' he asked politely, 'is there by any chance a basilisk?'

'A what?' Harry glanced back at Madam Pomfrey. 'Snape said something once about a basilisk,' he said slowly. 'About Voldemort having a basilisk, and a cave full of people it had killed for him.'

'A cave,' RAB echoed, but though his brow furrowed, said nothing more about it.

'That cave was never located,' Dumbledore said with strange weightiness, his eyes on the ghost. 'But there was some reason to believe the stories true. The difficulty, Harry, in determining what misfortune had befallen our school is the unusual nature of these attacks. True petrification-- not the jinx that leaves one aware but without control of their limbs-- is only caused by some few potions or highly complex spells. I admit with some embarrassment I dismissed the notion of a basilisk because its gaze is more often known to kill than petrify; and I had my own experience with such a death. You may perhaps have heard of the ladies' toilet haunted by the ghost of a former student named Myrtle Warren.'

'Rita Skeeter mentioned her, I think.'

'A very sad tale which is quite pertinent to our situation now. Miss Warren was-- how to explain delicately? An unlucky child. Though she came from a good background, she struggled to rise to the standards of her classes, and was of a prickly temperament that more often left her friendless than her social standing would otherwise have dictated. As happens sometimes with lonely children, she fell under the influence of a stronger personality, which became a cause of some concern for her teachers. I have always looked at my decision not to act when I thought I ought to as a great personal failure, Harry, and I have striven not to repeat my error with you, though whether I have, in fact, done better with you, I do not know, and may not know til it is too late-- as is ever thus.'

'I don't understand, sir. What's Myrtle to do with any of this?'

'The boy who so enchanted Miss Warren was Tom Riddle,' Dumbledore said simply. 'Yes, I see from your expression you comprehend exactly what that means. By 1943 Tom was a talented boy, but not yet come into much of his power, either magical or personal. Though he was handsome and charming and performed well in his courses, his lack of family connections kept him out of the best society, and I believe many sensed about him something of what he would become. He was capable of cruel pranks and a base meanness of heart, but also of a kind of compassion, and he drew about him those who were similarly disadvantaged. Miss Warren, for instance. And a friend of yours, who at that time greatly needed a friend-- Rubeus Hagrid.'

'Hagrid,' Harry repeated, stomach sinking. 'Tom Riddle got an award for services to the school at the same time Hagrid was expelled.'

'You would make an excellent Auror some day, Harry, if you do make that your profession; your intuition is a powerful tool. Yes. I would not have the full story til many, many years too late, but I had the first clues in that most shocking series of events. Miss Warren had been upset by some chance remark from a classmate, and retreated to the ladies' loo for a good cry. Her last memory, her ghost relayed later, was of a male voice speaking a strange language. The door to her cubicle burst open, and that is the last she could recall. She was killed instantly. It was obviously the work of magic beyond the means of any student, and it was suspected that a cursed beast of some kind must be responsible.'

'So sad,' Dobby whispered.

'The castle was searched, til Tom Riddle came forward with a woeful revelation. His dear friend Hagrid, who was known to have a particular ken for creatures others could not tame, had been keeping a very dangerous creature in his dormitory, and had confessed that this creature--'

'Hunter,' Harry said, the pieces suddenly coming together for him. 'Hunter-Killer-Striker. I heard him in the walls.'

'I do not doubt you heard something, but Tom was not referring to the basilisk. He blamed, instead, an acromantula, most deadly, whose poisonous venom would not have been detectible by the basic spells we had performed on Miss Warren's sad remains. And we, the teaching staff and the Aurors investigating alike, believed him.' Dumbledore paused, looking over the gold rims of his spectacles at Harry. 'Another failure,' he said. 'You may suppose, Harry, that Hagrid's unusual heritage was played against him. He was given very little chance to defend himself, even by me. He was expelled in short order. I have tried to make amends by offering him employment, knowing he would surely suffer rejection elsewhere owing to his lack of education and the stigma of his birth. I fear it is too little kindness.'

'No, sir,' Harry disagreed quietly. 'I don't think you realise quite what it means to people, to have somewhere to belong. It's everything.'

Dumbledore raised a hand. He touched Harry's scar, just as RAB had, but then he cupped Harry's cheek in his warm hand. 'That is too much kindness to me, dear boy,' he replied heavily, 'but I thank you for it. You are wise beyond your years, and I will remember that sentiment, for I think we shall have need of it still.'

'So the basilisk killed Myrtle. And that Voldemort-- Tom Riddle-- commanded it to. That was him speaking in the loo that day?'

'So I have come to believe. The strange language Miss Warren heard would have been Parsletongue, the language of serpents.'

'Parsletongue.' Harry's stomach sank all the way down to his toes and kept going. 'I can talk to snakes,' he said.

'Yes.'

'Because... because of something that happened that night Voldemort tried to kill me.'

'Yes.' Dumbledore touched Harry's scar again, thumb tracing it from hairline to eyebrow on a tingling path. 'Tom Riddle could speak to snakes as well, so he confessed to me on our very first meeting. And, as you yourself discovered, Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, found a way to possess Quirinus Quirrell, began a campaign to regain his form and his magic. I believe he waked the basilisk from its slumber and summoned it to its old hunting grounds-- though not in time to aid him in confronting you over the Philosopher's Stone, for which we can be very grateful.'

'But then Voldemort is back? Who else could tell the basilisk to kill people?'

'We have circled back to the crux of my misapprehension. You see, Harry, when Tom Riddle summoned a basilisk to strike his friend Miss Warren dead, I do not believe he did so by accident, but to experiment with a very dark magic. There is a kind of power to be achieved in a murder, and Miss Warren's killing is, by his intent, a murder, though not done with his own hand. But I confess I do not know what aim there may be in summoning the basilisk again to strike but not to kill, nor do I know what additional magic is at work, that drains the life from our poor victims so slowly. It must be Voldemort, for who else could it be? But I do not have anything like the shape of it, not at all. And I know of no way to reverse it.

'Harry.' Dumbledore stood gazing down at him with all his many years evident on his face, and a reluctance of a sort as well, but also a growing resolve. 'Harry,' Dumbledore said, 'are you ready?'

He didn't have to ask what for. His very bones knew. 'Yes, sir,' he said. 'I am.'

'I believe you.' Dumbledore's hand drifted from Harry's shoulder to flatten over his heart. 'And I would not have you face it alone.'

'I should hope not, sir.' Harry managed a smile. 'Everyone keeps reminding me I don't have to do it alone. I suppose I ought to listen.'

'As I have said, Harry, you are wise beyond your years.' Dumbledore removed the Sorting Hat from his belt, and upturned it with the brim pulled wide between both hands. 'Reach inside.'

Harry had seen magicians on television do tricks like this. They'd overturn their tophats and pull out a white rabbit, or a dove, or an endless scarf. He found it to be more like his bottomless bag, however, reaching and reaching til he was in the hat to his shoulder and still couldn't feel anything. He strained on his toes, stretching his fingertips as far as he could and-- he brushed something cold and solid, something metal, and scrambled to get a good grip on it. It wouldn't budge, as if it were lodged tight in a crevice. It needed both hands. Harry plunged in and yanked with all his might, jaws gritted as he exerted every last ounce of strength.

And then it was free, and Harry went stumbling backward, nearly going to his knees as the horrendous screech of a blade scraping the stones filled his ears. He only just caught his balance, swinging the sword upright and knocking over a glass lamp from its sconce as he did so. He cringed at the crash of glass. Dobby was on it immediately, cleaning the slivers out of the way as if it were a thrill just to be involved.

'What on earth?' Harry marvelled, staring at the thing in his hands. It was a sword, a proper sword like King Arthur carried in all the pictures, though not so elaborate as in his favourite illustrations, and not made of gold or damask but of plain steel, with a leather-wrapped grip, a simple cross-bar hand guard, and a blade near as long as Harry was tall. It was terribly heavy and horrid unwieldy, but impressive for all that. Harry had never seen a real sword before, and this one had obviously been used, for it was nicked and notched all along the blade and a bit tarnished with age. Harry squinted at the pommel, which had a bit of gilt still edging the worn _GG_ that was etched in graceful loops.

'And done,' Dumbledore said, and Harry looked up to find him gazing wistfully at the sword. 'You are the first to touch that blade in many centuries, Harry. Bear it well.'

As Harry watched the double-G writhed, flared, and faded. And in its place stood new initials, bright and bold as if newly stamped. _HP._

Harry lurched again as the floor went out from under him. But it wasn't his fault this time. The whole castle bucked, it seemed, the floor rumbling with a tremor, the glass panes of the windows rattling against their struts. It eased, then happened again, with a distinct percussive explosion. Dobby shrieked and dove under the nearest bed. 'What is that?' Harry cried.

'Him,' RAB hissed, as Fawkes screeched a ferocious pitch and launched himself, swooping about the room in a rage and sending Dobby into another shrieking fit. Dumbledore was donning the hat again, and nodding firmly.

'Mr RAB,' he replied, 'It is time for you to show us to the Chamber of Secrets, I think.'

 

 

**

 

 

The last time Harry had followed a professor into the bowels of Hogwarts' forgotten spaces, it had been to face a course of challenges meant to stymie the stealing of the Philosopher's Stone. Harry had defeated them, however, and had taken the Stone from the Mirror of Erised. This didn't feel different enough to Harry for his comfort, even if Dumbledore was more disposed to care what happened to Harry along the way than Quirrellmort had been. And neither of them knew where they were going, this time, but could only follow RAB, who floated on ahead of them with a grim determination of his own.

Harry's arms had tired from hauling the heavy sword along, and Dumbledore had paused long enough to Transfigure a scabbard and harness for Harry to wear it over his shoulder. The point of the sword would tangle with his ankles, however, and the crossbar stabbed him repeatedly in the neck, and the weight of it thumped along his spine with every step; and Harry was trying not to think about the fact that he did not have very much idea of how to use a sword, for all his favourite stories had featured quite a lot of hacking, swinging, and thrusting. Then, too, few knights in his stories had marched to battle in a hoodie and trainers. At least he was well prepared for the running, jumping, and tumbling part of battle.

But he didn't begin to feel nervous, strangely, til the ghost announced they'd reached their destination-- a blank wall at the end of a dusty corridor strung about with cobwebs and a faint smell of dank. 'Er, Mr RAB,' Harry said, as the ghost made to float on through. 'We can't go through that.' He knocked a knuckle against the stone to demonstrate.

'Dobby can take Harry Potter through,' the house elf suggested. 'And large wizard Bulbous Bumblebore.'

'Dobby,' Harry blushed, though Dumbledore seemed amused, not offended. 'It's Albus Dumbledore.'

'I have earnt worse nicknames in my time,' Dumbledore assured them both. 'I suspect your elf-- Dobby, isn't it?-- heard me called by that rather catchy mix of antonomasia and alliteration in his former employment. Thank you, Dobby. That will serve us nicely.'

Apparating into danger was not something Harry was overeager to face. And it was danger awaiting them, he knew that. But also an end to this. Voldemort, the black book, people petrified and dying. He put out his hand, and Dobby took it. RAB floated through the wall ahead of them, and Dobby took Harry through after him.

The pop of Apparation put them into a space of absolute blackness, excepting RAB, who was a filmy presence at the top of a long stairway that descended down beyond sight. Looking over his shoulder-- the sword jabbed him, and Harry shifted it out of the way yet again-- Harry could see that the wall they'd just gone through had once not been there at all, but been an entanceway bricked over at some unknown point. It looked to have been very long ago, judging by the crumbling of the mortar. A moment later, Dobby brought Dumbledore through, and Dumbledore quite practically cast a Lumos, lifting his wand like a torch. It did not improve the view. The ceiling was low, low enough that the Sorting Hat on Dumbledore's head was crushed down over his forehead, a barrell vault that made the air feel too thin and the space too small for all of them. But they didn't linger at it. RAB led the way, and Harry and the others followed in a queue, down, and down, and down.

It seemed they climbed down those stairs for hours. Sometimes they were impossibly steep, and Dumbledore or Dobby would use magic to help Harry skip over steps that had eroded with age and become little more than collections of pebbles waiting to trip the unwary. Sometimes it seemed the stairs levelled out, or even went uphill a bit. Harry began to feel like an ant, always marching onward in an ant maze without any notion he were trapped inside a glass case, watched by curious children. His leg muscles began to ache, then burn, his feet swelling in his trainers, and he became thirsty, his throat impossibly dry, but still they trudged on. If it really had been Salazar Slytherin who'd built the Chamber of Secrets, the secret obviously hadn't been magic. This was old-fashioned Muggle labour. Dimly Harry began to conceive a kind of private amusement at the notion. Everyone thought Slytherins were puffed up about bloodlines and keeping the magic for the magical, but there was something funny in it, this long Muggle passageway that was the exact opposite of magic, arduous and practical and utterly lacking in the miraculous. What better way to hide a Chamber of Secrets than by something no more secret than a bricked over stairwell? It was positively hilarious, actually.

Harry laughed, but only for a moment. The reality of it all weighed back in on him again. Every footstep was one more closer to finishing this.

'There,' said RAB, some long time later, and he was right, the end was nearing. Harry sped up a bit, passing the ghost and leaping down the last few stairs to the end, and came up against the door. It was only a door, a simple wooden door-- no.

Door. Harry had seen a Door like this before. The wood was old, ancient even, black with age and smooth under his hands like iron, and it had a simple lock, like the ones Terry Boot had taught him about last Christmas, but there was one simple difference. Carved into this door was the figure of a snake forming a figure eight, eating its own tail. Harry had seen that symbol before. It had been stamped on the envelope of the only letter he'd had from Nicolas Flamel. Somehow he was not surprised to see it here, now. He wondered if Voldemort had seen it here and taken it as his inspiration for the tattoo all his Death Eaters wore, or if there were only some cosmic coincidence.

He didn't need anyone's prompting. He traced the snake carving, feeling the grooves beneath his fingertip, put there by a knife hundreds and hundreds of years gone. He said, 'Open, please,' and knew he spoke in Parsletongue, and knew the Door would obey him.

And it did. And Harry squared his shoulders, and entered the Chamber of Secrets.


	18. The Crystal Cave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which Limits Are Not Only Inescapable, But Indispensable._

'That's quite the drawing, Mr Potter.'

Harry tried hastily to cover it, but Professor Lupin was already tugging the sheet from under Harry's elbow and raising it to the light. Harry chewed nervously at his lip, waiting for a demerit, a detention, at the least a cutting remark. But Lupin only reviewed it thoughtfully, nodding to himself as if he'd had something interesting confirmed, and then he returned it to Harry without crumpling it up for the wastebin or hollering that Crowhill boys were meant to be learning, not doodling. In fact, he went so far as to smile, though it was oddly sad, and he had to swallow hard before speaking.

'Your imagination is quite well developed for a mere nine years,' Lupin said. 'I heartily approve.'

'It's silly,' Harry said, embarrassed at this unexpected praise. 'And who would need a flying motorbike anyway?'

'Someone who wanted to see the other side of the clouds, I should think.'

'Yes,' Harry blinked. 'Yes, exactly.'

'Yes.' Lupin cleared his throat. 'No running, Basilton,' he called, and one of the older boys checked their clip through the mess hall for a moment, only to resume when Lupin returned his attention to Harry. 'Are you much of a reader, Mr Potter? Only I've seen your name several times on the sign-out sheet for the lending library.'

Crowhill's lending library was a small and dusty thing much the worse for the wear of hundreds of careless hands, and that presumed there was much of interest there to be handled with any care. Harry had been many times through Mr Benn's mediaeval adventure befriending a dragon at the king's court, and he liked Looking At History's fading illustrations of Queen Elizabeth and her dashing knights, and Gulliver Guinea-Pig who could talk like a person and wanted more than anything what Harry secretly longed for as well-- to be anywhere but where he was. But the rest of the library was, in the main, less enticing fare: trade manuals pointedly displayed to remind Crowhill boys their time was better spent finding ways to be useful to queen and country.

'I think I've just the thing,' Lupin said. 'Join me, won't you, Mr Potter.'

Visits to the instructors' offices were generally to be avoided. And indeed most of the instructors jealously hoarded their precious small space free of loud, dirty, and irritating children. Thompkins pointedly shut his door as Lupin walked past with Harry at his heels, and McCullaugh gave off one of his almighty frowns and muttered at the fuss. Lupin led Harry to his office at the end of the corridor and invited him in with a murmur. There was no-where to sit-- papers teetered in piles on the scuffed desk, and the saggy loveseat was covered with--

'You have so many books,' Harry said, startled.

'Rather a pain to move them all about,' Lupin agreed. He pointed Harry to sit at the battered chair at the desk. 'Take a seat, we'll be a minute sorting these. Help yourself to the shortbread, though I can't vouch for how long it's been sat there.'

Quite a long time, Harry judged, as it was stale as old bricks. He ate one to be polite, watching curiously as Lupin set about a leisurely hunt through his stacks and stacks and stacks of books. They overstuffed the shelves and travelled in a line about the walls, two deep and four high in the windowsill and even on the carpet, pressed tight into every corner.

'But have you read them all?'

'Some so many times I could recite them from memory.' Lupin smiled his sad smile again. 'Reading is a great escape, or at least so I've always thought. Whenever I had a spare coin I'd put it toward a book. Books aren't quite so good as friends, but I'm a great deal less lonely when I'm nose-deep in a good story.'

'Are you very lonely then? But there's so many people here all the time.'

'That's a bit different than having someone you can really talk to, isn't it.' Lupin brought a book down from a high shelf and checked the cover, returning it to its place in disapproval. 'Don't mind me, Harry. I've only been reminded of things I haven't got anymore, people from a long long time ago. It's put me in a poorly frame of mind. Ah. There it is.' He turned with a ragged paperback. 'Have you ever heard of King Arthur?'

'He's a legend, not a real king,' Harry said. 'From ages ago with the Vikings and all that.'

'That would be the Saxon invaders, but an ancient Briton, yes. Whether he was real or a myth is anyone's guess, but there are a number of old histories that mention Arthur. There have been all sorts of stories about him for centuries-- that he was a great warrior who united the British tribes, that he established an empire, that he fought great battles against the Otherworld and all manner of fantastical creatures, that he had a great wizard at his side, called Merlin, that he married a queen called Guinevere and established the Knights of the Round Table, that he carried a sword called Excalibur and that he never died, but lies on the island of Avalon, waiting til the time Britain needs him most.' Lupin handed Harry the book. 'For a boy with your imagination, this is just what's called for, I believe. When you've read it, I hope you'll come back for more.'

'The Once and Future King,' Harry read the title. 'It's quite long, sir, I may be a while at it.'

'Then you should keep it,' Lupin replied. 'Consider it the start of your own collection.'

'Keep it?' Harry touched the worn spine. 'Won't you miss it, though? You must have read it a lot.'

'I would only miss it if I knew it were sitting alone somewhere never to be opened again. Promise me you'll make the effort, and I'll consider it a gift well given.'

'I will. I do promise.'

'Excellent.' Lupin considered Harry, pale yellowish eyes in his thin face, lips just slightly parted as if he were about to speak but couldn't decide. 'I wonder if you might draw me one of your flying motorbikes? It's quite good. I should enjoy thinking about the other side of the clouds.'

'Oh, take this one.' Harry fetched it from where he'd stashed it in his textbook. 'A gift well given,' he repeated, finding he liked the idea. He'd never given anyone a gift before. And the way Lupin took it so carefully, and held it like it was special, put a bit of pride in Harry's spine. Yes, well given.

'Thank you, Harry,' Professor Lupin said, and Harry smiled back at him.

 

 

**

 

 

Nothing Harry had ever seen had prepared him for the Chamber of Secrets.

Even the strange underground wanderings Harry had glimpsed through his shared visions of Quirrell and Voldemort searching for the Philosopher's Stone were nothing to the Chamber. It wasn't properly a Chamber at all, in that it had no ceiling, no floor, no walls. It was a vast underground cavern, or more like a tunnel, twisting and turning into side-caverns and caves and pockets as small as Harry himself, but it was difficult to judge the size at a glance. Everywhere Harry looked the light of Dumbledore's wand sparked fire from the glossy spires of crystals as thick through as Hagrid, as long as the House tables in the Great Hall, as wickedly pointed as the sword riding Harry's back.

'What is this place?' Dobby asked, awe in his goggling eyes and hushed tone.

'One suspects it is a natural phenomenon,' Dumbledore murmured, tilting his head as if he were listening, not just looking. 'Yet there is great magic here. Ancient magic. Far more ancient than nearly anything I have ever encountered. The very air is steeped with it.'

'It's damp,' Harry said, observing a rivulet of water dripping down the jagged growths spearing out at them from all sides. He touched, gingerly, and his finger came away wet and cold.

'The Black Lake,' Dumbledore ventured. 'Or its tributary.' He raised his wand high, and the blueish light at the tip brightened, chasing back the shadows all round them. Harry realised that what he had taken for the nominal ground was in fact only a reflection of the spiny crystal spires dangling above an endless lake. It could be as deep as the centre of the earth or as shallow as the side of a coin, but it was so perfectly still that, like a mirror, it gave back double what it faced.

'It sounds like Fawkes.' At the sound of his name, the phoenix trilled his agreement. The crystal all about them veritably hummed, a soft ringing that echoed and echoed again and echoed onward through the caves. It wasn't the sound, though something in the quality of it did indeed resemble a bird's cry. But the humming seemed to be as much a part of the crystal as its shirred structure and the faint scent of sulphur. 'Do you hear it, too, Professor?'

He didn't glance over his shoulder to see Dumbledore favouring him with a peculiar look. He did see the eyes, fragmented and silvered and penetrating, that met his in the clustered spikes that bristled all about him as he took a tentative step away from the Door into this alien world. His rubber soles got a solid grip and he climbed, and his reaching hand found a welcome grip on a ledge-like formation. The hum drew him on, up, scarcely aware of his effort as he sought the source of the sound. His jeans slid in the slick, and he shivered, but he was barely aware of any discomfort as he wedged himself up against a huge pillar that extended so far above his head he could not see where it ended. It glowed, but not from the light of Dumbledore's wand. It glowed from the inside. And the eyes pulled him in.

It was like Legilimency, only outside himself, like falling down a slippery slide or tumbling into a well. He swayed with disorientation as image, sight, feeling buffeted him from all sides. _He ran for his life through a dark and vengeful forest, chased by torches, hunted by bows and wickedly sharp arrows._ Everything lurched sideways. _He stood atop a hill overlooking the Great Battle, a teeming sea of humanity that fought and died for what, for titles, for a measley year of power over a few tribes, for land that would swallow their bones and their childrens' bones and their childrens' childrens' bones indifferent to this sowing of blood._ Blood rushed in his ears, his heartbeat pounding frenetically. _The baby was small and jaundiced and lumpen, its skull misshapen and lips cleaved from the ugly gap where a nose should have been. He wrapped its still limbs in rough canvas and placed it atop the bloody sheets beside its mother's body. Burn them both, he told the physician. Tell the King nothing but that they died in the birthing._

'Harry,' someone said, far and farther still away.

_A grizzled warlock in leather armour tended his herd of hippogriffs, feeding well on the remains of a troll raiding party vanquished only two days ago. A squat witch in ragged homespun led the children in the garden planting; not far from her a comelier woman directed the stacking of stone at wandpoint, raising the walls higher than human hands could build them. But it was to him they'd left the plotting of their future, and just last night it had come to him. A fortress, even a magical fortress, could be brought down. A village, even a magical village, could die out. They needed something new. Or something ancient. A place for knowledge, not just people, to live, to thrive, to preserve. Like Alexandria in the wilds of the Pictish North. They would build a Library, a School, and magic would survive even if those who practised it did not--  
_

'Harry.'

A hand on his ankle. Harry blinked, and looked over his shoulder. Dobby had clambered up to Harry's perch amidst the crystals, and clung to Harry's trouser leg with anxiety writ all over his greenish face. But it was Dumbledore who had called for him, and who looked a thousand years old suddenly.

'Come down, please,' Dumbledore pleaded, hand extended for him, and mutely Harry obeyed. Dumbledore gripped his shoulder tightly as he returned. 'There are more dangers here than just those we intend to confront today.'

'Dangers, sir?'

'I begin to understand this Chamber of Secrets.' Dumbledore tilted Harry's chin and gazed into Harry's eyes, searching, seeking, probing. He seemed relieved with whatever it was he found. 'It behooves us to remember that Secrets are an ancient name for the mystic mysteries. Men could become lost in the mysteries. Great wizards who craved knowledge of the arcane above all earthly riches. I would not see you follow in their path.'

'I shouldn't like to, I think.' Harry discovered the sheen of the wet would not leave his fingers, though he scrubbed them on his hoodie. First unicorn blood, now visioning crystals. He ought to have asked for gloves for Christmas. 'Mr RAB?' Harry asked, focusing on the ghost who hovered at the Door. 'This is where the rat is?'

'Onward,' RAB said.

Passing through the caverns was not an easy job. The water was mostly shallow enough to wade, though treacherous plunges hid in their path, and Dumbledore sent ahead a charm to light them with a warning glow. Despite the water, though, the rough terrain of the hundreds of thousands of crystals that littered their path made for difficult going. Soon enough Dumbledore tied up the long skirts of his robe into his belt, baring skinny legs with hairy calves that ended in ankle boots of soft leather quickly shredded by the needle-points of quartz. Yet Dumbledore never complained. Sometimes the caverns were so packed with crystal that they were reduced nearly to crawling, going one by one following RAB's directions as he passed effortlessly through and found spaces just large enough for the living to squeeze by. Harry's sword stuck sometimes on an outcropping, and eventually he gave up the harness to just carry the sword by hand, dragging it behind him or shoving it through ahead. Dobby offered to carry it for him, but Harry declined-- for reasons he couldn't entirely explain, he felt it needed to be with him. How Fawkes was making it through, Harry had no idea, but the fire bird always seemed to be ahead with RAB. Fawkes seemed to take a liking to RAB, chattering at him cheerily.

The journey was compounded by the constant flicker. It was always at the edge of Harry's sight. Not bright like flame, or dark like shadow, but like a colour whipping by at speed, half-glimpsed and less understood even than that. Within the crystal. Memories? Visions? Harry didn't know. But the longer they traversed the Chamber, the more the visions seemed honed to Harry's desires. Soundless voices called to him. Faces he knew tried to catch his attention. His mum, his dad. Sirius and Remus. Dumbledore-- not the real Dumbledore at his side, but a Dumbledore much younger with russet hair and a well-trimmed ginger beard framing a strong jaw. And a Dumbledore much older, frail and bedridden like Lyall, his long hair nothing but white whisps clinging to his bald pate. And faces he didn't know, or rather faces half-familiar, a tall red-haired man with a gregarious grin and something about his shoulders that reminded him of Ron. A woman who wore witch's robes open over Muggle clothes, her bushy hair only barely tamed by a clip shaped like a cat with ruby eyes. A blond man whose hair hung straight to his collar, a faint sneer clinging to his patrician upper lip. A boy of seventeen, pale as ice, eyes frozen as he stared up into nothing.

Harry closed his eyes, and let RAB's voice guide him onward.

'Here,' RAB said. 'Look.'

Harry felt the change beneath his palms. Crystal broken, smoothed, almost as if it had been sanded down. The same effect had vaulted the rock overhead, boring through in a rough circle-- a tunnel that slithered off into the dark. 'But what could have done this?'

'The basilisk, I presume,' Dumbledore replied, crawling carefully to Harry's elbow and reaching himself for something that did not glitter amongst all the crystal. A scale. It was the colour of obsidian on the outside, but gleamed pearlesque on the inner curve. It was near the size of Dumbledore's hand. The serpent that had produced it, Harry reckoned with a sinking stomach, was undoubtedly proportionally sized.

'Harry,' Dumbledore said then, 'listen to me now. Your gift of Parseltongue could not have come to you through blood, but must have somehow transferred to you when you were given this scar by Lord Voldemort. I have thought long and hard on this subject since your gift was revealed during the first session of the Duelling Club. And I have hazarded to believe-- and hazard it may be-- that more than just an incidental ability was transferred to you. Parseltongue is not merely the speech of the serpent. It is mastery over serpentkind, for the man who has unlocked their secrets is the master of the beasts. I have hazarded to believe you can command this basilisk as well as Voldemort ever did. What you must summon up in yourself is the desire to do so.'

'What should I order it to do?'

'I cannot tell you that,' Dumbledore said. 'You must summon up, also, the knowledge of your own limits. I could tell you honestly this is no easy thing. I could tell you honestly that I myself have never known precisely where that limit lies-- for that very reason, I could never have a Diamond Soul. But you do, Harry, and you must know before you speak what it is you will say, or we invite disaster.' Dumbledore released a long slow breath. 'I and a hundred others have invited it this far, and fair or otherwise it now rests in the hands of a boy.'

Fawkes gave off a single mournful note. RAB touched the locket at his neck, his dripping hair hanging low over his face. Dobby clutched at the gloves he wore over his pointy ears.

Harry turned the scale this way and that to catch the light. It was sharp-edged as a knife. Deadly and beautiful, like so many things in the Wizarding World. He thought of the cave Snape had told him about, the cave full of dead people killed by the basilisk, waiting to be revived to fight for Voldemort. There was nothing beautiful in that. Only evil. Ugly, irredemable evil, like marking a baby to die and his mum and dad too, for no better reason than that you wanted a bit of turf to lord it over others. Harry had never particularly thought about why his parents had been Aurors, but it occurred to him now that the reason everyone talked about them as heroes and martyrs was that it wasn't a given, that you'd only naturally stand strong in the face of evil. They'd made a choice. And gone on making it, right until the end when they'd faced Voldemort at the point of a wand and refused to step aside. It was Harry's turn to choose, now. He supposed that's what Dumbledore meant by limits; knowing what you'd give, down to the very breath within your body. To stop someone evil who wanted to do evil things, yes. But also to fight for everything on the other side of that line.

_'Haaaaarry Potter.'_

It was real. He knew it wasn't the crystals calling to him. His scar throbbed, in recognition, in answer. Almost in relief, as if it knew its maker. Maybe the basilisk had felt the same way-- it had fretted after its master, after all. It wasn't just the Parseltongue that had come to him the night Voldemort had destroyed Harry's family and tried to destroy Harry as well. Dumbledore was right enough about that. The scar was like an obligation between them, Harry and Voldemort. Tom Riddle. A boy who'd had no-one to give him a book.

Harry stood. 'I think we should keep going,' he said. He offered his hand. Dumbledore took it, and leant on Harry's strength to rise, and kept his hand on Harry's shoulder, warm and trusting. RAB took Dumbledore's other side, Fawkes drifting alongside him on wide-spread scarlet wings, and Dobby hurried at Harry's heels til Harry reached back for him. Dobby's hand was a little damp to hold (or maybe that was Harry's), but Harry drew strength from the firm squeeze Dobby gave him. But they all came on just a little behind Harry, so that he led, now, and they followed. It would have been good to have his Knights with him, Harry thought, but this was enough like that to comfort him. And his Knights were with him, really, in that all the support they'd been to him, unquestioning and believing in him, all the learning they'd done together, all their surety in the rightness of what he had to do walked alongside Harry now as much as the ghost and the schoolteacher and the house elf and the phoenix did. He wouldn't be up to it if it were just him, just Harry alone. For all his Death Eaters, Harry had a notion Voldemort had never really known what it was not to be alone. Whether it would matter in the battle to come, Harry didn't know, but all the same he was glad of it, glad he'd known something more even if he was walking toward his death now.

That thought was something too big for Harry to really think about it. To really feel about. He supposed he could well die at this, whatever this would be. But even as he thought it, he put the thought away. He would do what he had to do. That was the limit.

 

 

**

 

 

There was movement in the water. Harry wasn't sure when exactly he'd begun to realise it, that there was a current, and one growing more rapid. And the water was deeper now. Soon it spilled overtop his trainers, and then it rose to his calves, and Dobby was beginning to struggle so Harry lifted the little elf onto his shoulders. When the water was at Harry's knees, a flick of Dumbledore's wand and a spoken spell raised them all out of it as if on an invisible platform. It was disorientating to look down and see his steps landing without impact on the dark rushing river. Dumbledore at least was foresighted enough to dry their shoes and clothes with another charm. Dobby squeaked with delight to find himself included in this, gripping his small fists in Harry's hair and kicking his toasty feet into Harry's chest before he recovered his nerve.

'Waterfall,' Harry guessed, as the trickle became a constant roar, and mist began to coat his cheeks and hands. 'We must be near the end.'

'Look,' said RAB, raising a hand to point. They had been in the Chamber of Secrets for at least an hour, maybe many hours, with no sense of time passing, but it had been long enough for human eyes to accustom themselves to the dark. It seemed impenetrable beyond the glow of Dumbledore's wand. But Dumbledore dimmed that, now, and slowly Harry was able to pick out the ambient light ahead of them, a hole in the black surrounding it. It grew brighter as they neared, and the noise grew louder, til it cocooned them in a kind of numbing thunder. The river rushed past him and then abruptly disappeared-- plunging over the edge of a great cliff into--

'It's another cavern,' Harry reported, taking care to note the dangerous edge and stay well back from it. RAB could go further than he, and drifted above the water to look out.

'This is where I found the diary,' the ghost told him, glancing back over his shoulder. 'It reeks of him here. Like poison.'

The sulphur smell. It was much stronger here. Rot and must stinging the sinuses. Harry peered as best he could beyond the spray kicked up by the waterfall. Another cavern, yes, but man-made, or magic-made, not like the crystal caves. If anything, it resembled the courtroom at the Ministry, only etched all in the natural stone: the floor was sunken at the centre of slanting tiers, encircled by a moat fed from the waterfall Harry now stood atop. Broken columns-- no-- standing stones, time-weathered obelisks, some tumbled and broken, some still proudly reaching for an unseen sky formed an inner circle. The high arched walls entrapping the whole were frescoed in faded murals that moved sluggishly, as if they barely had enough magic left in them to blink or twitch a finger. The murals at the Ministry were all of wizards and witches going about their business, sitting in judgement, conducting the government; these were far more fantastical. The crumbling blue of the skies faded into a rich black on which was painted the constellations, and far more of those than Muggles knew about. Hydras stretched their wings between the stars, and gorgons and chimeras and manitcores and centaurs and a cerebus-- Harry remembered Hagrid's three-headed dog that had guarded the Philosopher's Stone with regret, he'd have exchanged that for a basilisk any day. But Harry only took all that in with a quick glance. It was the battle taking place in the Chamber that drew his eye.

The beribboned form dashing between the standing stones was Gilderoy Lockhart. His spells were flashy and loud, little explosions that sprayed grit and sparks with every strike, but the sheer chaos of the scene prevented him tripping himself up as he normally did, and he'd already brought down some opponents. Bill Weasley was stuck in place half-statue, grey creeping up his lower half to immobilise him as Percy and his father tried frantically to free him. Tonks and Kingsley were fighting as a unit, but there was blood on Tonks' pale, set face and Kingsley limped, too slow to dodge all of Lockhart's missiles. And it wasn't just Lockhart facing off the Aurors and the Order of the Phoenix. Scrimgeour was duelling with Lucius Malfoy, both men locked in a rictus of deadly concentration as they flung barrage after barrage at each other. Savage had scrambled to higher ground on one of the fallen stones and hurled a vicious curse from that height, but Malfoy successfully shielded himself and returned fire with a flaming red orb that blasted Savage off his perch and left him sprawled, unmoving, on the ground below. But more brutal still was the duel between Sirius and Severus Snape. Sirius stood over McGonagall's crumpled form, exposed and unable to move from her as Snape advanced step by ponderous step. Lightning clashed with clouds of deathly black that burst with concussive force each time they struck. And through it all the basilisk waited, its massive length coiled up round and round and its huge head raised to spit and hiss, its inky scales grating on the stone and its pearl-white eyes slitted to catch any victim unwise enough to meet its gaze. Guarded by its bulk, two men and a boy stood over a large bubbling cauldron. Peter Pettigrew alone watched the battle, a wand pressed to his bared forearm on which the Death Eater tattoo writhed sickly and deadly. Remus crouched beside the cauldron, and at his side Draco watched its progress with a calm, slack gaze.

'The featherweight charm, Harry,' Dumbledore suggested.

'I've been practising that one since last year, sir.' Harry let Dobby slide off his shoulders, and reached for his wand in his pocket. But holding both sword and wand would get tricky, and he'd need one sooner than the other down there. Every man and woman battling below was a better wizard than Harry, anyway. He put up his wand, and drew the sword from its scabbard. The hilt felt warm in his hand. With a deep breath for courage, Harry stepped off the edge and let himself fall.

His arrival garnered little notice. Lockhart was pinned and Tonks was stabbing the air with her wand, firing curses like bullets at him, and Snape was doing the same to Sirius. Scrimgeour drove Malfoy to his knees with a shout, but then Malfoy pointed his wand at the ground beneath Scrimgeour's feet and spoke a single word, and it opened with a thundrous crack and threw Scrimgeour scrambling to get away from the abyss that threatened to swallow him up.

Dumbledore landed beside Harry, and Dobby apparated into place, and RAB drifted down beside them. Fawkes spiralled slow and elegant above the fray, then turned his golden head to Harry and loosed a piercing war cry.

Every head turned toward them in the sudden hush.

'Hunter-Killer-Striker,' Harry said, and fixed his eyes on the wall behind the basilisk as its terrible eyes swung toward him. 'Where did you come from? Before your master called you here.'

Even without looking directly at the basilisk he could see it swelling dangerously, something wickedly sharp that must be fangs catching the light. 'My masssster,' it hissed at him. The sibilant ess seemed to blend with the roar of the waterfall. 'My master comes at last.'

'But before he called you here,' Harry said again. 'Where did you come from, before he was your master?'

There was no immediate answer. Humans began to stir, the surprise wearing off, but no-one quite dared to break the fragile moment of cease-fire. 'Harry,' he heard someone call, but he didn't look about for it. He needed all his concentration for this.

'Where... where did I come from.'

'Before,' Harry said. 'Can you remember it? Was it very long ago? You weren't always here, in the castle.'

'Beeeeefore.' The basilisk's scales grated on the stone as it wove its coils tighter. 'Before, before the snow and ice came, when the green was endlesssss...'

'Long ago, yes. Very long ago. Where were you from? You were free, weren't you? You weren't kept like a pet then.'

Agitation shuddered through the slinky long bulk of the creature, its massive head bobbing through the air. 'Before the man-beasts. Before my master. There was no hunger then. But then my master came and bound me and the hunger time began.' Heavy coils unwrapped as the basilisk sidewindered toward him, head weaving hypnotically. Harry resolutely kept his eyes to the side. 'Hungry now,' the basilisk hissed. 'Hungry.'

'I'm sorry,' Harry said. 'I'm afraid there's no-one I'd let you eat. I need to stop you, and I need to stop your master. He's a bad man. The things he wants you to do are bad. Please-- please stand aside. Er, slither aside.'

'My master comes. I obey his will, not yours.'

'If you really need someone to tell you what to do, then-- then I reckon I'll do it.' Harry tightened his grip on the sword. 'Stand aside, or I'll make you.'

'Stop listening to him,' Peter Pettigrew interrupted shrilly. It was the first time Harry had heard him speak. He was a man who had the look of someone who'd lost a lot of weight recently, folds of skin sagging at his jaw and round his middle, a belt hitching up his trousers where they threatened to fall right off him. He had a ratty face, as if living as a rat for eleven years had stamped itself on his features-- a long nose that twitched nervously, fingers hitched to claws. He whirled away from the cauldron, thrusting his wand so hard at the tattoo on his arm that the wood dug a furrow into his skin. The tattoo glowed a repulsive green that furled in on itself, then burst outward. The basilisk reared up in alarm, roaring, but the effect on the Death Eaters was worse. Snape lurched to his feet, his face wiped blank as a slate, and his wand rose, too, in a hand that steadily aimed it despite the trembling in his every limb.

'Crucio!' Snape croaked, and his curse took Sirius in the chest, bowling him over. Sirius's howls of agony split the air until Scrimgeour jerked himself to life in response and fired back in answer. Like automatons, they all yanked up their wands, and then the battle was back in earnest, chaos from every corner, and there above Harry's head the basilisk growled in ancient menace and struck.

Harry yanked up his sword and the thought sped from idea to magic like a live current down his arm. The shield spell was one he'd been able to cast since first year, one of the first that Quirrell had taught him in their special lessons, actually, but the power of it was unlike anything Harry had ever cast before. It was like unleashing something inside him, attenuating it with the sword, and it came bursting out of Harry with so much force that it actually shone in the air. The basilisk rebounded from it with an audible clang like a tuning fork.

'Stop!' Harry shouted, but the basilisk only gathered its strength and struck again. Harry swung the sword to meet its strike, this time, and the flat of the long blade smacked the basilisk clean across the nose. It hissed its hurt, darting sideways, and Harry swivelled to keep it in his sight, careful to look only from the corner of his eyes. 'Stop,' he ordered it, 'I don't want to hurt you. But I will if I have to.'

Malfoy had resumed his duel with Tonks and Kingsley. Lockhart popped up long enough to snap off a hex, and Savage took him out with a spell that flung ropes about him and dragged him off his feet. Snape took out Savage a moment later, with a spell Harry didn't know, and then Tonks made it to Sirius's side and it was three against Snape, and Kingsley against Malfoy, and-- yes, that was Percy, who had taken up his wand and joined in, as Mr Weasley sobbed over Bill, who was grey up past his stomach and struggling to breathe, going blue in the lips and using what precious air he had to tell his dad to help Percy instead--

Harry screwed his eyes shut and threw everything in him through the sword.

 _'STOP!_ _'_ he commanded, and the basilisk keened, mournful and protesting and resisting, but only for a final moment. It yielded, and it bowed its head. Harry panted with the exertion, as if he'd lifted something horrid heavy and strained every muscle in his body. But he exerted himself one more time, and said, 'Don't hurt anyone. You're not allowed to hurt anyone. Close your eyes.'

'Harry, behind you!' Dumbledore called, and Harry whirled to find Snape coming at him with wand aimed straight for Harry's chest, and he didn't think about it. He didn't think about it all. He swung the sword, and it cleaved right through Snape's outstretched arm. Wand and all, a clenched hand fell to the stone, the pale forearm and its gruesome tattoo landing in a spray of blood.

'Incendio,' Harry said, and flame sprouted from the sword, swarming the stump of Snape's arm as he fell back in a faint.

'The arm!' Scrimgeour caught on, and three curses took Malfoy at once, a stunner and a Petrificus and a stream of ice that plastered his arm to the ground. Percy kicked his wand away, and went after Lockhart next, icing him as well.

'You're too late,' Pettigrew snarled. 'Now, Moony, do it!'

Remus rose from his crouch and set his shoulder to the cauldron. It tipped off its stand and crashed over the fire, its contents spilling in a great wave. It splashed everywhere, a roil of viscous black tar and something in the tar, something that splayed out in the puddle looking like-- looking like arms and legs and a head and a body, like a person, like a boy about Percy's size, and at first it only laid there like a dead thing, drowned in the tar, but then Draco raised his hand over it and brought a dagger across his palm, and when the blood dripped with a sizzle onto the body, it inflated with a breath, and began to stir. The head lifted from the stone, the hands flattened and pushed, and it began to crawl its way upright.

Harry set the point of the sword to its neck. 'Hullo, Tom,' he said.


	19. The Order Of The Phoenix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which Nothing Goes Particularly To Plan._

The tar splashed to the stone in inky droplets. Ink. It was ink, wasn't it. The boy wiped his face of it-- Pettigrew hurried to supply a kerchief, cringeing away from Harry and his sword. The kerchief acquired a thick smear of black, leaving behind a blotchy track of white skin and hooded brown eyes. The boy crumpled the cloth and gave it a desultory toss to the ground.

'And you are?' he asked Harry. His voice was low, not deep but consciously modulated, almost musical. It was a beautiful voice. The hand that presented itself to Harry was beautiful too, with long fingers and gracefully shaped palms, hands like Mrs Malfoy, but masculine all the same. He stood nude and unself-conscious-- or, rather, relishing his nakedness, luxuriating in the possession of limbs, toes, an elegant neck on which to preen his proud head. When Remus settled a robe about his shoulders, he fastened it indifferently, taking much greater care in the practised swipe that brushed his ink-glopped hair high off his forehead.

'Harry,' Harry answered shortly. The sword was getting too heavy to hold out like this. He wasn't at all sure it was safe to lower it. 'You're young.'

'You're younger.'

'Twelve. Thirteen this July. The last time I saw you--'

'Yes, I've heard all about that. How are those nightmares, hm? You do look a bit peaky. Draco was rather withholding on details, but Moony was wonderfully informative.'

Moony. Harry's eyes flicked unwilling to him. Remus stood there, boots soaked in ink, his face a study in conflict. There wasn't a bruise on him, yet he held himself as if in pain. He fidgeted and worried at a silver chain about his neck, a strange bit of jewellery with a large opalescent stone. He didn't meet Harry's eyes.

'Harry,' the boy said. 'Harry Potter. What a plebian little thing you are.'

'Bill,' Mr Weasley sobbed. Harry didn't dare a glance back, but he heard the scrambling of shoe soles on stone as Mr Weasley came charging. 'My son!' Mr Weasley snarled, 'my son-- _E_ _xpulso--_ '

'Deal with him,' said Tom Riddle, and Pettigrew was already hurrying to intercede. A swipe of Pettigrew's wand raised a shield, but it was Remus who made Harry jump out of the way, bursting into motion. Remus leapt past him as Mr Weasley, weeping, flung another curse. A hit took Remus in the shoulder, but he only kept moving, almost a blur as he ducked low-- lower, knuckles scraping the stone before he launched himself up and tackled Mr Weasley flat. They went skidding across the ground, and Harry heard himself yell as they tumbled to a stop at the feet of the unmoving stone statue that had been Bill Weasley. The flash of teeth and a low growl was interrupted by a sharp bark, and a missile of fur came dashing from the side. Padfoot bowled Remus back, shifting back into man shape and whipping his head to yell, 'Arthur, did he bite you? Are you bleeding?'

'What did you do to him?' Harry demanded, fear firming up his wavering arm.

'Arthur!' Sirius repeated, struggling to hold Remus down. He went from man to dog again, then back again a moment later as they wrestled. Usually Sirius had an inch or two on Remus, though they were matched for muscles; Remus was a bookish sort but Sirius had been a decade in Azkaban. None of that was evident now. Even from his back Remus swung with brutal strength, his fists landing audible blows to Sirius's ribs, jaw, his vulnerable gut. But it wasn't punches or kicks that had Sirius waging war and losing. Remus swiped with finger curled to claws, and his teeth bared in a fierce growl like fangs.

Fangs. Fangs, and claws, and when he freed himself at last and sprang at Padfoot, he howled like a wolf.

'I see your fascination with Dark Creatures continues unabated by your sojourn as a journal,' Dumbledore said.

'He's magnificent, isn't he?' Tom watched the battle between werewolf and animagus with something like indulgent pride. 'I wanted him the moment Draco described him to me. A werewolf and a scholar! He's exquisite. But even more unique now I've tamed him-- not even Grindelwald managed to tame werewolves, you know. And it didn't take very long, you know. When he begged to serve me, ohhh.' Tom shivered theatrically. 'A a collector yourself, Albus, I'm sure you agree. You don't mind if I call you Albus? I'm technically sixty-six years old.'

'Of course, Tom,' Dumbledore answered politely. 'It would seem sensible to dispense with any elaborate courtesies under the circumstances.'

'What did you do to him?' Harry repeated loudly. He lowered the sword at last when his grip began to shake. He swung about and strode toward the men rolling about on the stone, but Pettigrew stood cringeing in his path, and the basilisk hissed in alarm. 'Stop him now or--'

'Or what, Potter? You aren't actually so deluded as to believe you have a part to play here, are you? What poison has Dumbledore been pouring into your ears? Sorry to break the news, but you're positively irrelevant to today's events. To the near year of heroic magical effort that-- why even bother to explain? You're so ordinary, it's wasted on you.' The contempt Tom put into _ordinary_ was withering, but Harry only glared. 'I must say, Albus, you've really gone to slim pickings in this modern age. Grindelwald was a fit enemy, unparalleled, all-powerful. My progenitor is a pale shadow, if he was defeated by this speccy little git.'

Remus had managed to roll Sirius beneath him, and struck such a fearsome blow that Harry, even over the noise of the waterfall, heard it clearly. Sirius's head snapped to the side and he went limp. Remus stayed there kneeling over him, chest heaving, head hanging low. Maybe it was regret, or his senses returning. He touched Sirius's cheek, turning his face to the light. He bent, nose brushing Sirius's hair. Then he licked at the line of blood leaking from a cut on Sirius's temple, tongue washing red as he pressed it to Sirius's white skin. Pettigrew shuddered, turning away. He flicked his wand nervously at Harry, who knocked it aside with his sword. The stick of wood clattered to the floor, and Pettigrew scrambled after it.

'Perhaps you might trouble to explain to me, then, Tom,' Dumbledore went on, as patient as if he were attending a tea party-- as patient as a judge at a trial, awaiting the testimony of the facts.

'Is this really the time, Albus?' Scrimgeour shouted. He was rousing a groggy Professor McGonagall, grimacing over Savage who limped upright with help from Kingsley. Tonks hovered warily over Percy, who sat, silently weeping, at his brother's stone feet, his father crumpled in his lap. 'We've got the numbers, man, Potter's stopped the basilisk--'

'And perhaps we might put a pause on further violence?' Dumbledore continued as if there had been no interruption. 'I believe we have little need to stall, not now. Your victims have served their purpose, if I am not mistaken.'

'No, no need at all.' Tom ran admiring hands down his own chest. 'There's ways and ways for the dispossessed to regain a body. My progenitor may have chosen an easier path, possessing the weak and the willing, but what is easily gained is so rarely worth the effort. Am I not a work of art? Surely I wasn't this perfect as a real boy. Not a blemish, Albus, not so much as a skin cell out of place.'

'The same cannot be said for those sacrificed to make you so.' Dumbledore twined a finger in his long beard, twisting slowly, consideringly. 'Colin Creevey. Penelope Clearwater. Poppy Pomfrey, for a last infusion of magic... yes, I think I see. I suppose Argus Filch was a misdirect. No... no, even a Squib has a magical core. A small infusion at the right time, then. You have always exhibited a troubling disregard for life, Tom.'

'No artificial tears with me, Old Man. We both know that some can be sacrificed with less fuss than others.'

'If anything,' Dumbledore mused, 'the misdirect was the Chamber of Secrets and the Prince of Slytherin.'

'Misdirect?' Tom laughed. It was thin-toned, not a little cruel. No-one who heard that laugh could be fooled by the handsome boy sniggering at them. 'Do you see where we're standing, Albus? Am I not the man who opened the Chamber?'

'Looks like Wormtail or Moony did, not you,' Harry interjected, 'seeing as you were stewing in a pot when we got here.'

'I directed them from within the diary,' Tom shot back, an ugly sneer momentarily marring his fine features. But almost immediately that expression vanished, and he was only a smiling boy once more. 'Dear Wormtail and Moony-- what treasures they are, truly, though you must have known that when you recruited them, Albus-- Wormtail here had access to every nook and cranny of the school and all its fresh young magical cores. It was his suggestion to give up searching for my maker's spirit and use the tools already available to us. Oh, it took a little time and a little subterfuge; that conceited playboy Lockhart is rather good with Obliviation, you know, and he cleared the way for us more than once. Bit of a dunce with his so-called area of exptertise, but he kept Moony out of the way til we were ready to bring him in. Did you know when you set them to wage war against Lord Voldemort you'd give them the tools to resurrect the best part of him? But, then, when you bade me study the Dark Arts to better predict what evils Grindelwald would commit, you never imagined I'd be tempted to try them for myself. You are too predictible, Old Man. You make the same mistake too many times not to learn from it.'

'So I see.' Dumbledore touched the brim of the Sorting Hat, perched again on his head, in a little show of deference to Tom's smirking triumph. 'But then my Order was always meant to be what I could not.'

'Order? Order of the Phoenix?' Scrimgeour approached Harry from behind, laying a cautionary hand on Harry's shoulder. His gaze wavered between Tom Riddle, Peter Pettigrew, and Remus who lost interest in Sirius who lay unresponsive. Remus, blood on his lips, sensed the new threat and climbed to his feet, stalking toward them with rangy strides, growling low in his throat. He looked like the werewolf in the Defence textbook-- his jaw stretched to accommodate those tearing, biting teeth, his hands malformed to deadly claws. His yellow eyes gleamed in the soft glow of the jewel at his throat, unblinking predator's eyes in moonlight. It made Harry sick in the pit of his stomach. Remus didn't look human even with two arms and legs and his ugly shirt and scuffed old Muggle shoes. He didn't look at all like Remus.

Tom's ink-smeared eyebrows climbed his forehead. 'Hasn't he admitted it?' A grin began to grow across his well-formed mouth. 'Oh, Albus, how I wish I knew more what the passing years have done to you. You and your secrets. Congratulations to you, belatedly. Headmaster. Dashed clever of you, Old Man. You always did view education as the perfect recruitment tool. You've had entire generations of us under Phoenix's sway by now; unless I am very much mistaken, Chief Auror? You have the stink of Phoenix all over you. Why not join a _real_ wizard, eh? I want so much more than to preserve a sickly state and its weak ruling class. And who's to stand against me? The field looks clear from where I stand, and everyone loves a winner.'

'Stop it,' Harry said. He levelled his sword again with sore muscles and pointed it at Tom's vulnerable neck. 'Stop being such a smug prat and sneering at everything. What are you going to _do_?'

'Yes, Tom,' Dumbledore agreed quietly, 'what are you going to do now you have achieved your return?'

'Threats from a child with a pointy stick frighten no-one, Potter.' Tom snapped his fingers, and Harry felt a strange tug at his backside. Too late, he figured out what was happening, but his grab was too slow. His wand sprang free of his back pocket as if fired by a gun, zipping through the air to Tom's outstretched hand. 'Ahh, now that's more like it,' Tom purred, petting the wand with such an evil leer at Harry that Harry made an attempt to snatch it back, only to find it pointed at his heart. 'Moony tells me this was your dear mummy's wand,' Tom said. 'But it's got more of me than you. It calls to me. Like a beacon on a dark night.' He stroked the wood, thumb finding the little groove rest, and paused there. 'You've ruined it somehow. It's... it's twisted. Changed.'

'Transmuted,' Dumbledore corrected him. 'What do you intend to do?'

Tom dragged the wand in a tight circle over Harry's heart. 'I'm going to leave,' Tom said, 'and you're going to stand aside and let it happen. Spare yourself the humiliation of being forced to.'

A bead of sweat tracked down Harry's cheek. But his head and heart were cold and unmoved. 'No.'

'Bring your pet to heel, Albus,' Tom said dangerously. 'Or I'll bring mine, and mine are bigger than yours.'

'Harry,' Dumbledore said, and Harry looked away from Tom long enough to glance behind him at Dumbledore, who touched a finger to the brim of his hat again, and let his eyes linger on Harry's sword just long enough for Harry to take the hint and nod his agreement. 'Do your utmost,' Dumbledore told him, and Harry took a deep breath.

'See, Albus? I knew you understood sacrifice.' Tom rolled Harry's wand in another circle, this time etching the air with flames. 'Moony,' he said, 'the boy.'

Scrimgeour was quick with a curse, but Remus was faster. He'd been pacing like a caged tiger, eating up the ground in agitated, angry strides. At the sound of his name he twisted about and sprinted, fleet as an athlete, as a wolf, and he grabbed Draco in his arms and took off with him. Kingsley and Scrimgeour took up the chase, but Harry wasted no more than a breath on his fear for them.

'Dobby,' he said, 'get Draco to safety. Tom-- you and me. It was always going to be you and me.'

He swung his sword, pushing hate and desperation down the steel length.

It met Tom's fireball with a thunderous clang. The sword absorbed it, but it went superheated, and Harry gritted his teeth as it burnt in his grip. He swung again. Tom followed the heat with ice, and this time it was as if Harry had struck a solid wall, vibrations reverberating up the blade and nearly shaking it from his grip. But he pressed his advantage, taking a careful step into the pool of ink on the stone. Tom went back a step in turn, and grimaced at Harry. He brought wind, next, and again Harry met it with the sword, and this time the sword cleaved through it. Harry kicked the cauldron out of the way, advancing another step. And this time when Tom threw a curse at him, Harry took the advice Sirius had given them the night they faced the elder Voldemort in the Headmaster's office-- he aimed for the legs. Tom let out an undignified screech and skipped out of the way, fumbling to recover as Harry aimed the sword at the stone beneath him and commanded it to shake.

The earthquake that resulted was powerful enough to rouse a shriek from McGonagall, a warning from Tonks. Only Harry at its epicentre was unstaggered. Tom snarled a hex Harry had never heard before, and darkness swarmed him. Harry felt suddenly benumbed, cut off from all sensation except the thrumming sword in his hands. Neither up nor down made any sense, and he didn't even know if he was breathing or screaming. _Light_ , he thought as hard as he could, and the darkness cracked. Just in time for him to see Tom grabbing up his wand and hurling a complex overhanded hex that spun through the air in a glittering arc, slicing straight for Harry.

Remus had told the Knights again and again and again. When there was danger coming-- run. Don't think. Just move those feet.

Harry ran. He ran for the basilisk, and took a flying leap for it. Sleek scales as slippery as marble slid under his flailing grip, one-handed and rubber trainers scrabbling for purchase. 'Eyes closed!' he hissed at Hunter-Killer-Striker, as the basilisk bucked under him and nearly threw him off. Harry ducked low as a spell sizzled overhead. The next one hit the basilisk, eliciting a ear-melting scream. Hot bubbling blood slicked Harry's hand as he hauled himself up the basilisk's spiny back, crawling up the long neck. It's just like climbing the dinosaur jungle gym in the park in Berkshire, Harry told himself, even if the climbing frame at the park didn't buck and heave under him and he wasn't usually trying to cart a huge sword along. The sharp edges of the scales sliced at Harry's hand and shins. Tom was shouting, a slur of hexes and jinxes and things much darker than that, spells Harry had never heard that made the Chamber smell like sulphur and made the air bend and burst. Harry made a frantic grab and got hold of the long black spikes that decorated the basilisk's head, straddling the long neck. 'Now, eyes now!' he ordered the basilisk, and wrenched its great head about by the spines to turn its deadly gaze on Tom Riddle.

'Wormtail!' Tom cried, like a little boy scared of the dark, whirling away and cowering with his arms over his head. Pettigrew tried a spell of his own, cringeing as he was away from the basilisk's stare, that even he seemed surprised when his curse landed. The basilisk certainly was, howling in rage and pain, whipping its head wildly--

'Percy,' Harry heard Pettigrew gasp, and when he straightened himself on Hunter's neck, it was to see Pettigrew standing not over Tom Riddle, but Percy Weasley, sheltering him from the threat overhead.

'Eyes shut,' Harry breathed. 'Hunter. Eyes shut.' He stroked Hunter's bloody brow, sorry he'd done it and sorrier still because it hadn't ended anything, and he knew with sudden surety he was out of options if he wasn't willing to do his utmost. He could take the chance the basilisk might kill Tom Riddle, but he couldn't chance Hunter killing anyone else in the doing.

Tom peeked from under his arms, and discovered himself abandoned. 'Oh, you'll pay for that,' he breathed. But it was to Harry he raised Lily's wand. His face was as twisted and ugly as his insides, now.

 _'Avada Kedavra,'_ Tom cursed him, and Harry held his breath as he ducked as much as he could against Hunter's back. Maybe it wouldn't hurt--

Lightning split his head open. Harry heard himself breathe, and heard himself stop. He fell, and heard himself land on the stone, the sword clattering down beside him. The ceiling with the painted stars was pretty. He watched the constallations til they went dark.

 

 

There was light in the shadows. Flashes. Red, bright yellow, more of that green lightning. Shouting, from far away it seemed.

 

 

 _Harry_ , someone whispered, lips pressed tenderly to his forehead, fingers on his forehead, leaving wet behind.

 

 

Harry. Fawkes alighted on his chest, a weight that was both very heavy and not a weight at all. Fawkes cocked his head, black eyes gleaming. His soft chirrups were like music. He hopped to the ground beside Harry, and bent his small head to Harry's cheek, singing in Harry's ear. Singing, singing. The song lifted high to the ceiling, to the stars on the ceiling, the music of the spheres.

 

 

'Harry.'

 

 

He opened his eyes. They felt crusty with sleep. He raised a hand to scrape at them, only to find it was wrapped up mummy-like in bandages. How peculiar.

'Harry Potter is not to move,' Dobby said. He was seated on a little stool at Harry's side, swinging his legs above the tile. He wore Mr Malfoy's gloves on his ears still, and Harry's glasses hung from his neck on a string. These he supplied with pride. They were a bit smudgy, but Harry jammed them on regardless. The infirmary came into focus.

Or one half of it. There was a bandage on his head, too. Covering one eye.

Fawkes was perched on the end of Harry's cot. He gave off a happy little 'Bluuurp' to see Harry awake, and fluttered his wings as a caution against picking at the bandage. 'All right, I was only curious,' Harry grumped, falling back to his pillow. Now he was awake he discovered a dozen aches and pains. None were any worse than what he felt after a vigourous game of Quidditch, but there were lots of them. He lifted a leg to verify there were bandages there, too, with little spots of blood as if his shins had got all sliced up.

'Would Harry Potter like a café au lait?' Dobby asked hopefully. 'Or fresh pâté? Or escargots à la Bourguignonne? Crêpes and caviar? Or pheasant under glass? Dobby will get them all.' He hopped from his little stool, but before he vanished he did the most astonishing thing. Well, not the crying-- Harry rather had the impression Dobby cried at the drop of a hat. But the fierce embrace he caught Harry in was new. 'Dobby is so glad, so glad,' Dobby sniffled, and at that he did go, disappearing in a pop, presumably to empty the kitchens in a feast for his new master.

'You're awake.'

Sirius. He had spectacularly blacked eyes, and a crutch under one arm as he came limping into view. He settled onto Dobby's stool with some difficulty-- it was awfully low for his long legs-- and a little grunt of discomfort, but that was nothing to the shaky way he inhaled and his eyes went red and teary.

'Thought for a while there you mightn't,' he said hoarsely. 'Wake up.'

'What happened?'

'What do you remember?'

What did he remember? He wasn't entirely sure. 'I remember the Chamber of Secrets,' Harry began, but trailed off. 'I remember... I remember a lot of fighting...'

'You fought Voldemort,' Sirius said. 'Again. Sort of.'

Tom. Tom Riddle. 'Yeah,' Harry said.

'And he... he tried his damnedest to kill you.'

'The Killing Curse.'

Sirius's mouth did something unhappy and sad. 'I was hoping you wouldn't remember it. Again.'

Harry touched his bandaged eye. 'It doesn't hurt. Not now.'

'Guess that's more for us than you.' Sirius pulled Harry's hand away. He held it, tightly, for a long minute. Then he cleared his throat and attended the bandage, peeling away the tape and bundling the linen into a rust-stained ball. 'I'll get a mirror,' he began, but Harry stopped him rising.

'Just tell me, please.'

Sirius nodded. Nodded one too many times, the way Remus always did. 'Your scar,' he said. 'Your scar, it's.' He touched, gently. 'It's worse. Goes from here to here, now.' His fingertip trailed from Harry's hairline down his forehead, over his eyebrow, down the corner of his eye, a little ways down his cheek. He cupped Harry's cheek. 'The mediwitch said it shouldn't affect your eyesight. But it's a curse scar. There might be pain. Headaches. You're to tell us, you know. They've had you dosed up. Don't be a hero. More of a hero.'

It didn't hurt. Throbbed, a little. Just one of the many aches. 'Okay,' Harry said. Maybe it should bother him. Maybe it would, later. He did feel a little floaty. He wondered whether they'd given him a Calming Draught. He didn't like those. Wouldn't like it, anyway, once he woke up enough.

'Oh,' Harry said then. 'Tom Riddle. He got away?'

Sirius bowed his head. Harry supposed that was answer enough.

'Remus,' he added, a little bit later, when his brain got round to supplying that memory. Definitely a Calming Draught, and probably a sleeping potion, and who knew what else. He felt a little floaty. A little bit wrapped in cotton batting, mothballed and wrapped away and shut up tight. He couldn't be properly alarmed by anything. It should be alarming. Specially since Sirius couldn't answer that one, either, and just sat there with his head bowed and tears falling onto his hands, laying limp in his lap. 'Remus is dead, then?'

'Gone. Him and the rat. Tom Riddle.' Sirius licked his lips, swallowed hard. 'Dumbledore duelled him. After you fell. I saw a bit of it by then-- saw you go down, and Dumbledore step in. Master dueller, Dumbledore. Never seen finer. Without you there to command it, Riddle ordered the basilisk to kill. Your fire-bird there saved us all. Put out its eyes with those claws and beak. Took every bloody Auror in the place to cage it. It's still down there. Near impossible to kill, creatures like that. It's the Ministry will figure out what to do with it, I suppose. Anyway. It didn't last long, not really, the rest of it. Dumbledore outmatched Riddle and Riddle knew it. He ordered Moony and the rat to kill their hostages if we didn't let them go--'

'Wait, I remember that,' Harry said. 'Draco.'

'And Percy Weasley.'

'Wormtail saved Percy's life. From the basilisk.'

'Saved a valuable bargaining chip,' Sirius corrected him bitterly. 'Don't take it for kindness, Harry. He put a wand to Percy's head cool as you please, the same as he helped Voldemort kill your parents without a twinge of conscience. Riddle used Parsletongue to open a passage out, and to close it up behind them. Said they'd leave the boys for us to find if we were good and didn't chase. We did, of course. Those boys were as good as dead if we left it to those murderers. Your house elf volunteered to go after them-- he's all right, you know, for an elf. Brave little thing. But he couldn't find them. Dumbledore called him back to us to get us out of the Chamber instead.'

'How'd you even get down there?' Harry wondered groggily. Though Sirius talked as if Harry had been asleep for a long time, he didn't think he'd manage to be awake much longer. His eyes felt enormously heavy. 'You were already there when we came in.'

'Snape,' Sirius spat with considerable loathing. 'Snape, and Malfoy, and Lockhart. They turned on us. Playing us all along.'

'No,' Harry said quietly, thinking on it. Snape's arm, with the Death Eater tattoo. The look of dread and dismay on Snape's face as he'd advanced on Harry, wand outstretched. 'I don't think it was their fault. They were being controlled, by the Mark.'

'Don't believe it for a minute, Harry. But even if it's true, it's their own fault for taking the Mark to begin with. They're rotted bastards, the lot of them, and they deserve the Kiss.'

'The Kiss?' Alarm dragged Harry's eyes open. 'The Dementor's Kiss?'

'Scrimgeour hauled them all to Azkaban the minute we were out of the Chamber. He said there'd be trials, but why start now? Serves them all right, and serves me just fine.'

'If they just Kissed everyone without a trial you'd have been killed too,' Harry said. 'And I'm glad that didn't happen.'

Sirius didn't answer that. His face was all warring muscles, a tight jaw and leaking eyes staring unblinking at the wall, ears red from temper and cheeks pale with grief. 'As good as did,' he said, strangled and pained. 'We didn't have long enough. A hundred years wouldn't be enough.'

Harry took Sirius's hand. 'We'll find him. We will.'

Sirius dashed his tears with a rough swipe of his sleeve. 'Rest,' he told Harry gruffly. 'There's plenty more to come of all this. Do you want me to get you anything from home?'

'Dunno.' Dark was swallowing him back up. His own eyes were wet. It was hard to breathe. 'They're looking for them still? Draco and Percy?'

'They're looking. But... Harry, don't get your hopes up.'

Harry turned his face into the pillow. He pretended to be asleep until Sirius left.

 

 

**

 

 

The new mediwitch wasn't at all as good as Madam Pomfrey. She was nice enough, when she remembered to be, but she didn't know where anything was, her hands were always cold, and she was awfully shrill about all the comings and goings in her territory. And she didn't at all know how to talk to Muggles.

Mr and Mrs Creevey came back to the school to hear the news about their son. RAB had been right. Tom Riddle's return had used up his victims. There were no bodies to recover.

Harry sat with them a while. He wasn't sure if it helped at all, and much of it was too tangled and difficult to explain, and Sirius warned him against saying anything at all about Tom Riddle or Voldemort til the Aurors gave them permission. Mrs Creevey seemed to come away with a clear impression it was the Petrification had killed her son. Miserably Harry decided to let it lie. The means didn't change the bad end.

'Bad business,' Mr Creevey said, the only thing he said, til at last McGonagall brought Colin's trunk and school things, and the camera he'd been so entraced by. Mr Creevey turned the camera over and over in his hands as if it were a Rubik's cube, and could be solved if he only knew the trick of it. Then he looked up at Harry. He said, 'Get out whilst you can, lad. Put this magic-- magic-- put this bad business behind you, and get out.' And he put the camera on Harry's knees and he took his wife away with him.

Madam Pomfrey's sister was easier. She stayed longer, boxing up Madam Pomfrey's office things, accepting a dictaquill Harry brought to her but not looking him in the eye. She preferred to be alone, she said, if Harry didn't mind. So he sat on his cot pretending to read a comic Sirius brought him, pretending not to watch the lady with the steel-grey hair and half-familiar face as she took down a few picture frames and wrapped them in newspaper, collected a tea set and crated it, shuffled through files to remove a few personal journals and books. She didn't acknowledge Harry as she left.

Auror Savage was in the infirmary for some time, recovering from being cursed in the battle in the Chamber. He complained about everything, the lumpy mattress, not having a long enough cot to properly stretch out, a poor view of the windows, the skittish temperament of the new mediwitch Miss Applebaum. He complained about Harry looking at him, too, so Harry stopped doing it, and acted like he couldn't hear Savage muttering to himself nonstop. It was altogether a relief when Savage was at last well enough to be transferred to Saint Mungo's Spell Damage ward. Minerva McGonagall, who had the cot to Savage's other side, muttered too, 'good riddance to bad rubbish,' but she was cleared to leave that same evening, and forgot to say good-bye to Harry as she hurried out, much to deal with and a vanishingly small amount of time to get it done.

Arthur Weasley had been examined and released before Harry ever woke. Remus hadn't bit him, which seemed a bit miraculous. Harry took some strength from that, though Sirius told him not to make anything of it. Remus had not been in control. If he hadn't bit either Arthur or Sirius in his transformed state, it was accident, not design. Harry nodded his understanding, but privately let himself believe it was more than a miracle. There were no other miracles from the battle. Bill Weasley could not be cured.  Molly Weasley stopped in to see him, bestowing a hug that lingered a long time and as tightly as if she were holding her own son. She didn't talk much, and her eyes and nose were red but she held it in. 'Prewett women are strong,' she said simply. 'And we've got far too used to losing our menfolk.' But when Harry put his head on her shoulder she held him close and let him feel how shuddery her breaths were, all the effort it took to keep it inside. But eventually she left, too. At the end of the week, Harry was alone in the infirmary.

'There's nothing wrong with you,' Miss Applebaum told Harry, more than once, but if anything that answer seemed to confuse her, and so she kept on dosing him with new potions over his objections. Sometimes it was nice to sleep, but he didn't like the ones that put him in a haze, half-aware and indifferent to everything. Some made him sick up and some made him desperately wish he could to relieve his churning belly. Dobby always cleaned up after him with great pride, and sneaked him chocolate or toast against Applebaum's orders. Miss Applebaum didn't know anything about Harry's magical allergy and in fact refused to believe such a thing was possible as she'd never heard of it herself, and no she would not be trowling through Madam Pomfrey's notes, she had far too much to do. Not so much to do that she wouldn't always check Harry's mouth thoroughly to be sure he'd actually swallowed whatever noxious brew she wanted to pour down his throat next.

Dumbledore didn't come to see him. Harry realised it after a few days. If he had come, at any rate, it was while Harry was asleep, but Dobby had not seen him, nor had Sirius. Sirius said he was swarmed with the Aurors and the Wizengamot, which had been recalled for an emergency session that kept Sirius away for hours on end, too. He wouldn't tell Harry what the session was for, but Harry wrote back anyway that he would tell anyone who wanted to know what had happened. Sirius didn't answer that letter, so Harry went back to passing his time as best he could, with only Fawkes and a house elf for company.

 

 

**

 

 

Tonks came to fetch him home on Saturday. Her hair was shoulder-length and deep black, and so were her lipstick and nail varnish and long skirt too. She brought Harry a matching black jumper, as a joke, and said it looked good with his eyes. To Harry, looking at himself in the mirror in the loo, he thought it too closely resembled Tom Riddle's ink-covered appearance. He rolled up the sleeves and went out to collect his things from his cot.

'Can Fawkes come?' he asked, as he stuffed a rucksack with the clothes he'd been wearing for days. Dobby had washed them every night, but he did look forward to the rest of his things back in Wales.

'Suppose that's up to Fawkes,' Tonks said. She put her hands on her hips, pursing her lips at the phoenix. 'Well?' she asked the bird.

'Pfffft,' replied Fawkes.

'I don't know if there's anyone to feed you if I go,' Harry warned Fawkes. 'I suppose we could ask the elves, but you know they don't like to go into the headmaster's office when he's not here.'

Fawkes chirruped his disdain for the elves and their superstitions. He began to clean his feathers, quite ostentatiously. Harry gave him a good-bye stroke to the crest, and got a gentle nip to his fingers in turn, but Fawkes didn't follow as they left.

It was nice to be out of doors after a week inside them, even if the weather was grey and gloomy and the skies threatened rain. They walked to the gates, and Apparated from there. Harry found the cottage in Beddgelert to have a slightly stale smell to it, in need of airing out, but it was the sight of limp Christmas decorations that put a sad tug in Harry's heart. Without a word he began to take them down. Tonks helped.

Afterward they sat in the kitchen for a cup of tea. Well, Tonks had tea. Harry had a cola from the cold cupboard, as there was no-one in the cottage to enforce the strict dietary restrictions Miss Applebaum had sworn him to. If you couldn't have a fizzy or two after almost dying fighting your greatest enemy, Harry thought, swigging from the bottle. Tonks left a smear of black on her cup and wiped at it, embarrassed, but Harry only shrugged it off. He was running out of things for Dobby to clean, and he'd welcome the challenge.

'Tonks,' Harry said, as the promised rain finally began to fall. 'I'm sorry about Bill.'

She smiled wanly. 'Thanks, love.'

'He was nice. And clever.'

'And handsome and funny and loved his mum,' she said, dropping her chin onto her fist. 'Boys like that don't grow on trees, my mum told me. She practically went into mourning when we broke up out of school.' She grimaced. 'Guess that's not funny now.'

'I didn't realise,' Harry aplogised. 'I thought you were still boyfriend and girlfriend.'

'Just mates now. Good mates. In fact he set me up with Charlie, that's the next oldest brother. After that I'd about had my fill of Weasleys.' She fell silent, staring into the dregs of her tea. 'I've lost mates before,' she said. 'It's a hard thing. You don't feel it all right away. In pieces, like. And sometimes it's so fresh and raw you can't leave the bed for crying, and sometimes it feels like you'll just see them again tomorrow, they're only off where you can't see them, not gone forever.'

'Why did you join the Order? Both of you. You'd have been young when Voldemort was about the first time.'

'Suppose it was flattering to be asked,' she said after a moment's thought. 'To be good enough. I wanted to be an Auror all my life, but it wasn't exactly a natural fit. I'm clumsy and only fine at school, nothing exceptional. And a halfblood, not that that's terribly remarkable, but given whose blood I've got half of, it was no easy goings. Bill's Pureblood royalty practically, both sides. When he asked me to the Yule Ball I about shat my knickers-- er, well.' Her mouth quirked in a smile that slid into something sadder. 'Said he'd noticed me in Defence. Wanted a crack at the wickedest wand in our year. And he smiled that smile at me. I never got over that smile.'

'The Order?' Harry prodded gently.

'Right. Er... sixth year, it was. Scholarship competition. I lost out-- Prudence Pickles took first spot for Girls Sixth-- but the Headmaster had me aside to say he'd read my entry and was very impressed. Said he thought I'd be a better fit for a programme he had for selected older students. Bill had the same story, 'cept Dumbledore told him his uncles had been selected in their day, too, and his mum and dad both. Thought it'd be like some dean's club, y'know, sitting around while the white beards reminisce about the good old days. It was that, all right, but not the good old days. He said-- he said, the day will come we've got to be ready, got to be fighting fit, got to be willing to fight to the death.' Her eyes turned up to his. 'More than a few of us have gone the distance,' she said. 'But none of us twelve years old.'

Harry swallowed the last of his cola. 'Is it true the Order's older even than Voldemort? As old as Grindelwald? That... that Tom Riddle was in the Order, once?'

'I don't know.'

'You're not just putting me off?'

'I'm not. Swear.'

'If he's got away for real,' Harry said, 'then there's two Voldemorts out there.'

She nodded. 'Guess we'll be recruiting.'

'Tonks...' Harry rubbed at his scar. It didn't hurt any much more than when it had been smaller, but it was there under his fingers, a ridged and jagged line splitting his forehead in two and just barely missing the corner of his eye. 'I want to help,' he said.

'No.'

'I need to help. I let him go.'

'He cast the Killing Curse, Harry! And surviving it twice is no guarantee of doing it a third time. You are a _child_. You are a little boy who was put in the middle of something a hundred other people couldn't stop and it's horrible, yes, it's bloody fucking awful, but that doesn't change the facts!'

'No, it doesn't. Snape and Mr Malfoy didn't do it on purpose, you know. Wormtail was making them, somehow, with the Dark Mark.'

He'd thrown her. She stared at him. Then, with a sigh, she nodded. 'We know. I testified for them. Sirius asked me to.'

He felt a rush of gratitude. Sirius had listened after all. It turned into tears, in a whirlwind of strange emotions that were all suddenly at the surface and vying for supremacy. Tonks left her chair, and came to put her arms about him. Harry rubbed snot into the sleeve of his jumper, and Tonks ruffled his hair. 'Sorry,' he mumbled, but she only turned him up by the chin and pressed a firm kiss to his cheek. 'Ew,' Harry said. 'Did you smudge me?'

Tonks gave off a watery laugh. 'Love it or else, Potter.'

'Yeah,' Harry said, and hugged her back.


	20. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which Nobody Is Ever Really Missing._

_**DUMBLEDORE OUT OF WIZENGAMOT** _

_**Harry Potter Faces Down Slytherin's Heir; Several Dead, Two Kidnapped; Minister for Magic Leads Procedure to Expel Chief Warlock** _

_**By Rita Skeeter** _

_In what is surely the most stunning political upset since this same man's elevation to the Wizengamot in 1967, Albus Dumbledore has been ejected from said august body by a vote of 29 to 25, a vote called and whipped by Cornelius Fudge himself.  
_

_Sources close to the Minister (who will remain anonymous in order to speak on the record) call this a stunning victory. Dumbledore has retained unusually high popularity during his incumbency, facing only a few semi-serious challenges in his lengthy occupation of the post of Chief Warlock-- no more. Dumbledore can no longer place himself above the law, and may yet find himself facing graver consequences still.  
_

_But Dumbledore is not the only great man to face the vengeance of the Wizengamot. With little fanfare and in the quiet of the night, the Wizengamot convened for the trials of three men accused of crimes past and present: serving He Who Must Not Be Named not only ten years ago, but even now in times of an increasingly precarious peace. The_  Prophet  _has already revealed the identity of one of these men, who has been sheltered by Albus Dumbledore as a professor of Potions at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but the two who joined Severus Snape at the dock are better known to the society pages than the news. Lucius Malfoy and, to the shock of many of our devoted readers, Gilderoy Lockhart have both been accused of material support of criminal activity, intent to commit murder, possession of banned Dark objects, and use of the Unforgivables. No word on their pleas has been released, but this journalist has learnt (from sources who prefer to remain anonymous given the severity of the circumstances) that only one guilty plea has been logged, with the other two maintaining their innocence. Whether the Wizengamot will agree remains, for now, unknown. Til their deliberations reach a verdict, all three men are being held under the tightest security in Azkaban, prison of the Darkest of the Dark._

_The hero of the hour, Harry Potter, remains shut away from his adoring public, who are refused all interviews or even second-hand information by his guardian, Lord Potter. Though Lord Potter-- more familiar to our readers as Sirius Black, falsely accused himself of being a Death Eater-- has been about the business of the Wizengamot at all hours in the wake of this newest crisis, of young Harry there is no sign. Rumours abound: that Harry Potter journeyed alone into Hogwarts and faced down the Heir of Slytherin, that he battled hell hounds and monsters, that he, a boy of such tender years, somehow unearthed the Chamber of Secrets and faced down its murdering denizens. Dear readers, the only rumour we can definitively deny is that Harry Potter went to the Chamber and there found his death._

_'The Boy Who Lived,' Chief Auror Scrimgeour has confirmed to this journalist personally, 'remains alive, I swear that on my seal of office. I myself stand witness to his great deeds. The Aurors stood beside Harry Potter in the Chamber, that is all I can say at this time, but your readers should rest assured that the Aurors are standing twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week to guard this most precious boy against any and all who would seek to harm him. Let that be said for all to hear: I and my Aurors stand with Harry Potter.'_

_There you have it, men and women of the Wizarding World. A mystery, to be sure, but wrapped in a truth: our heroes walk amongst us, to keep us safe from the Dark._

 

 

 

The sword was becoming a problem.

Harry had found it standing at his bedside the first night he was back in the cottage. There was no knowing how it had got there, as there was no note, and Dobby swore it wasn't him who'd done it, nor Tonks. Tonks, in fact, tried to take it away with her, but when Harry went back upstairs to fetch a book to read it was there again, resting against the wall in its scabbard, the belt wrapped about the hilt. Dobby cleaned it, unearthing polish and cloths from somewhere in the attic and presenting it back to Harry quite proud of himself.

But the sword didn't seem content with that. If Harry spent the day in the kitchen, the sword would appear there. If Harry watched television for an hour, the sword turned up beside the couch. If he walked outside, he'd find it waiting against a tree or hanging from a convenient branch. There was no ignoring it. With a sigh, Harry accepted the inevitable. He strapped it on. Tonks made a face the first time she saw him with it, but she didn't say not to, and anyway Harry knew the sword wouldn't take no for an answer. It was heavy and the harness strap wore a line into his shoulder and the crossbar was forever jabbing Harry in the back of the head, but in a way it made him feel a bit better about things, having it near.

No-one told him what had happened to his wand. Harry knew. Tom Riddle had taken it. The sword didn't erase the ache of losing his mother's wand, but it was better than having nothing at all.

Sirius was home at odd hours, in an ever blacker mood that didn't welcome questions, so they spoke little. In the middle of the night, Harry heard noise and rose to investigate; they sat quietly on the back porch, looking out at the faint outline of the mountains under the stars and the waning moon, their breaths misting in the winter air, snowflakes clinging to their eyelashes. Sirius looked at the sword for a long time, but wouldn't touch it.

'Bill's funeral is tomorrow,' he told Harry abruptly. 'I'll take you. Wear something nice, whatever you have here. I've brought you a white robe. Don't know if you know that. Wizards wear white to funerals.'

'I don't know if I should go. If they want me there.'

'They want you there,' Sirius said, his face falling from its hard cast into weary lines. 'Molly asked especially. She said Ron's been asking to see you. Would you like that? Seeing your friends? I know it's hard, cooped up here. It's just best for you. No-one really knows about this place.'

'Remus knows about it,' Harry said.

The weary lines drooped even more, til Sirius sat with his eyes closed. 'There's reasons that doesn't matter anymore. Spells. Wards. Dumbledore... Dumbledore says it's safe.'

'Will I go back to school when term starts?'

'If term starts.'

'Will I--'

'Harry,' Sirius said, 'please don't ask questions just now. Go to bed, all right? Just-- go to bed.'

Harry swallowed down a moment of hurt. 'Okay,' he replied, and he obeyed.

There was no body to bury, but they held the ceremony in a family plot in the countryside all the same. There were dozens of people packed in on Transfigured chairs, ginger-haired Weasleys of all ages from ancient crone to newborn baby, and a number of brown-haired relatives from Mrs Weasley's Prewett side. There were Bill's colleagues from Gringott's Bank, and mates from his school days, and several notables close to the family, and surrounding the entire business was a line of Aurors in their red robes who stood at attention, alertly scanning the horizon for who knew what dangers. Professor McGonagall came, and Professor-no-longer Filius Flitwick, who was in tears nearly the entire hour, mopping at his eyes with a kerchief only to have to charm it dry and begin again every ten minutes. Tonks was there, but not as an Auror. She hugged Mrs Weasley for a long time, and so did two middle-aged folks dressed as Muggles, a tall and stately lady with long black hair covered by a large flowered hat, and a man with steel-streaked hair and a well-trimmed beard who bore Tonks a striking resemblance. Ron, who wore a white robe and looked very pale except for red eyes, was kept up front in the receiving line no matter how he fidgeted. He gave Harry a lonely wave, and Harry returned it, but Harry didn't try to approach him. There would be time at the wake later.

Instead Harry sat in the back, unwilling to draw any attention to himself-- the sword had already caught a few surprised looks, and that before anyone looking at him realised who he was. Sirius was drawn off to talk to Scrimgeour, who seemed to be attending partially in his official capacity and partially in private personage; Sirius left Harry with a word to stay in sight and not go wandering, not that Harry had any intention of doing so. He settled himself in the back corner, on a seat made slightly wobbly given its perch between the crooked roots of the old oak that occupied a large area of the plot, and he arranged the sword to hang off the back of the chair where it could feel Harry near, and then he sat picking at his fingernails til someone dared to speak to him.

'Mr Potter,' said a voice like ice breaking in the arctic.

'Hello, Mr Griphook.'

'You remembered,' the goblin observed. Unlike the wizards and even Tonks's Muggle parents, Griphook did not wear white. He wore a sharp-cut pinstripe suit in navy blue, a bowler hat tucked over his sloping forehead and stringy hair. He extended a four-fingered hand, and Harry shook it. 'Is the seat beside you, by chance, taken?'

Harry supposed Sirius would come back when the ceremony started, but til then Harry had deliberately placed himself to be surrounded by empty chairs, and couldn't pretend they were reserved. 'It's yours if you'd like it, sir.'

'Thank you.' Griphook's size made seating himself on a wizard-sized chair awkward, but life-long practise made the best of it. 'My sympathies for your loss,' Griphook said then.

It was a rote thing to say, being said all round them, in fact, but no-one had yet said it to Harry. It was so unexpected it made his throat come over tight and impassible. He nodded.

'Did you know Bill?' he managed, a long minute later.

'He was employed by the Bank,' the goblin explained shortly. 'The Cairo Branch, to be specific, but I agreed to represent our colleagues today.'

'I'm sure the Weasleys are grateful you've come,' Harry said.

'Doubtful,' Griphook grunted. 'Most humans would as soon use us when needed and forget us when not.'

'But you must've liked Bill.'

'He was a human. No more. No less.'

'I'm human,' Harry pointed out.

Griphook turned eyes keen as obsidian on Harry. 'No,' he replied slowly, consideringly. 'No, Mr Potter, I think you are rather something else. Something more. Or, perhaps, something less.'

There was no answering that. If most humans preferred to ignore goblins, Harry thought, it might well have something to do with the goblin disposition toward expressions like that.

The ceremony began just after noon, with the sun gleaming weakly through the grey blustery skies. Sirius was not best pleased to find Griphook had taken his seat, and less pleased still that Griphook paid not the slightest attention to Sirius's attempts to signal, politely and silently, that Griphook ought to do the decent thing and scram. So Sirius, grumbling, stood under the oak and glowered with his arms over his chest, murmuring the occasional comment in Harry's ear. There were a few speeches to sit through, one from Mr Weasley's brother praising Bill as a gregarious child with a surfeit of talents who had done his family proud; McGonagall covered his school years, noting Bill's excellent work, his leadership in House Gryffindor, his many academic awards and his tenure as Quidditch Captain. A few of Bill's personal friends spoke, recalling Bill's always-smiling sunny nature, his willingness to lend a hand no matter how busy he was, his fondness for a pint out with the lads, always playing gallant escort home to the ladies, the thrill he took in the adventure of curse-breaking and how it had drawn him all the way to Egypt, to venture where no-one else had in a thousand years in search not of treasure, but knowledge. Bill was himself a treasure, and, like gold and gems and other rare wonders, should have been long in the world.

No-one spoke of how he'd died. Not even to praise for him fighting to the end, or for his devotion to the Order of the Phoenix, to ridding the world of evil. No-one said a word about it. Harry rubbed the old leather wrapping the hilt of his sword. He wished he was brave enough to stand up and say it, shout it, scream it. But it wasn't bravery was needed just now. It was cunning and politics and the desire not to alarm people who would most definitely be alarmed to know there was another Voldemort out there. And, anyway, it wasn't Harry's place to go thundering on about it. The Weasleys knew. They'd lost a son to it, and might still lose another. They didn't need reminding.

Usually after the internment there would be a laying of flowers, Sirius told Harry in a low voice, or, with the old Pureblood families, there might be small gifts of magic, to send the loved one to the beyond with a final taste of that which they no longer possessed. For Bill, there was only a sad shuffle out of the graveyard, a long queue of wizarding folk headed uphill to the large white tent that had been raised for the wake. Mr and Mrs Weasley left first, their children with them, to bring out the food. Ron caught Harry's eye as he passed, mustering a smile. Harry returned it as best he could.

'Your sword, Mr Potter,' Griphook said then.

'My sword?'

'I wonder if you might share whereby you came it? You did not have it before.'

'It's sort of a long story,' Harry said. He stood, and shouldered the harness. Sirius helped him straighten it so the crossbar didn't bang on him too much.

'It was not in your vault. Nor in your father's estate.'

Those were not guesses. Sirius was frowning mightily. 'No,' Harry said.

'I wonder if you know it is goblin-made.'

'Is it?' Harry rubbed his thumb over the initials etched in the pommel. 'How do you know? I mean, it's-- it's quite old, I think. You wouldn't have seen it before.'

'No, I have not had the pleasure. But I recognise the handiwork of my ancestors. Besides, as you may infer from your observations of Wizardkind, Mr Potter, there are very few wizards who prefer to work with metal over wood. Do you know the sword's heritage?'

'It was Godric Gryffindor's,' Sirius interjected, jaw thrust out as if he expected a fight.

But Griphook only nodded. 'And who was Godric Gryffindor?'

Oh, that was right. Griphook had told him when they'd first met that he hadn't gone to wizarding school, so perhaps he didn't know anything of wizarding history. 'He was one of the founders of Hogwarts,' Harry explained.

'Was he, indeed? And who was he before that?'

'Before that?'

'Were not all wizards born as boys first?'

'I suppose,' Harry said slowly. Griphook nodded as if satisfied, and hopped down from his chair. He brushed his hat and placed it on his head. 'Are you staying for the wake?'

'Goblins prefer to send off our dead with something a little more vigourous,' Griphook said, with something that was both malicious and nostaligic. His smile was all daggers. 'I believe social conventions have been met, at any rate.'

'As far as anyone demands anything social out of goblins,' Sirius muttered.

'Mr Potter--' Griphook turned back then. 'May I add that I am... personally... glad to see you have emerged unscathed from your newest predicament.'

That, Harry thought, was understating things. 'Thank you, sir.'

'Peculiar,' Sirius grunted. 'Come on, Harry.'

But there was no going very far. Rufus Scrimgeour met them halfway, clearing his throat gruffly and repeatedly stuffing his gloves into his belt, only to remove them, wring them, and replace them. 'Black,' he greeted Sirius, ignoring Sirius's reflexive correction to Potter. Then, 'Master Harry,' he greeted Harry.

'Er,' Harry said, not liking that development one bit.

'I wondered if I might have a word with you, young man.'

'He's done enough!' Sirius growled. He put himself nose to nose with Scrimgeour, refusing to back down even when Scrimgeour put a hand on his chest and pushed. 'I already told you no. I'm his legal guardian. You don't ambush a twelve year old boy at a fucking funeral to play on his already outsized sense of responsibility--'

'What do you want me to do?' Harry interrupted, or tried to. Sirius reached back without looking and shoved him off by the face.

'There are a thousand questions need answering!' Scrimgeour insisted.

'I'll answer anything,' Harry tried.

'No you won't, Harry.'

'Sirius! Yes. I will.'

It was a contest of wills. Sirius's gaze became more wild, his jaw more grindingly crushed closed. But in the end he didn't protest. He walked away, hands thrust deep into his pockets and his back rigid as he climbed the hill.

Harry wet his lips. 'What questions, sir?' he asked Scrimgeour.

The look the Chief Auror turned on Harry was inscrutable. But he didn't comment on Sirius's furious departure. He only nodded. 'I'd like you to come with me to the school, Master Harry. We've been reviewing evidence. Memories. And we'd like to collect your memory of-- the events.' He sensed Harry's hesitation, and added gruffly, 'We'll return it as soon as it can be recorded. I imagine you'll need it.'

For the next time. There would be a next time. Yes.

'I'll go,' Harry said. 'But... but can we please do it after the wake? I'd really like to see my friend.'

'Of course.' Scrimgeour moved abruptly, arm extended stiffly to indicate Harry should proceed him. But then a moment later the arm blocked, instead. Scrimgeour steeled himself, looking down at Harry's upturned face but avoiding meeting his eyes by focussing on something just to the side. The scar.

'Forgive me,' Scrimgeour said then. 'You are... you are something remarkable, Master Harry. To have survived the Killing Curse twice. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself. I've been attempting to keep it out of the press. You should know-- you should know that the _Prophet_ has it.'

'Rita Skeeter,' Harry guessed glumly.

'A most enterprising woman. We revoked all press passes to the courts and to Azkaban, but she's got her pen in most of the salient details anyway.'

'She can be a beetle,' Harry said. 'She's an animagus. I found that out last year when she kept sneaking into Hogwarts to find things out about me.'

Scrimgeour blew out a breath. 'Well. That explains a great deal. Unregistered, clearly. You ought to have informed someone of this. Withholding information about a crime is itself a criminal act.' His eyes slid over Harry's scar, his sword. 'Not that-- not that we would take any action on you. Of course.'

'She was writing a book about me. That stopped her.'

'People care about you. You are the Boy Who Lived. People care what you think, what you do.'

'Who I want to be Minister for Magic,' Harry said.

Scrimgeour might have tried to bluff it out. He did try, for a moment at least, before his gaze shuttered and coolled. He sighed, a soft puff of air.

'Politics, Master Harry,' he grimaced. 'It's a damnable thing.'

'I reckon there's lots of politics for Ministers, sir.' Harry shifted the harness on his shoulder. 'I should go in, sir, I'd really like to see my friend.'

'Of course. When you're ready. I'll escort you to Hogwarts myself.'

'Yeah,' Harry said, in lieu of thanks, for he wasn't at all sure he was thankful to be going back to it. No. Thankful was really not the word.

Ron met him behind the buffet with a hug. He squeezed hard, quick, then pulled back, rubbing his wrist over his nose. He didn't protest Harry refusing to let go. They stood that way for a long moment, awkwardly mashed together, but Harry didn't stand back til Ron made a little squirming attempt at escape, and then he kept his hand on Ron's elbow.

'Any word on Percy?' Harry asked.

'Not that they tell us.' Ron chewed at a lip that looked already well-abused. 'Maybe you heard something? I saw you talking to Scrimgeour.'

'Nothing. But I'll ask.'

'Harry.' Ron dug in his teeth so hard that his lip emerged white. 'Harry, I heard... I heard about what happened. Some of it. Dad told us. I'm--'

'Don't say sorry.'

'I wasn't going to. I was gonna say I'm hacked off. Why the bloody hell didn't you wait for us?'

'Wait for-- your dad and Percy came to--'

'The Knights,' Ron hissed, and now he gripped Harry's arm, and pulled him out of the shelter of the tent and round the corner of the Burrow, into a private spot past the chicken coop and cow's corral, a corner created by the outer walls of the house and Mr Weasley's car shed. Ron blocked Harry into the corner, standing there scowling with his fists on his hips. 'The Knights,' Ron said again, at normal volume now, but tight and angry and not at all forgiving. 'We were training all year for this. We told you again and again. You don't have to do it alone.'

'I wasn't alone.'

'If we'd been there--'

'If you'd been there Tom Riddle would've tried to kill you or kidnap you like he did Percy and Draco!'

'Or we could've beat him!'

'There were Aurors and the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore and Godric Gryffindor's sword and all it took was a curse.' Ron's eyes went to Harry's scar. Harry pushed back his hair to give him a real look at it. 'Yeah,' Harry said. 'So don't tell me it would've made a difference. I'm glad you weren't there. I wish no-one else had been there at all. Then maybe Riddle would've just got what he wanted and left without hurting anyone else.'

'You are so full of it, Harry.'

'You're not the only one who gets to be hurt right now.'

'I could say the same to you!'

'I'm going back to the school,' Harry said abruptly. 'I'm going to--'

'Ron, have you seen Harry? Oh.' It was George. He shuffled in place a bit, looking warily back and forth between the two boys. 'Sirius is looking for you,' he told Harry. 'Urgent, he said.'

'I'm going with you,' Ron interjected stubbornly. 'Since I can't trust you to tell me anything.'

'Fine,' Harry bit out. He turned on his heel. Ron was at his back, near enough to trip on him if he stopped his march across the dry grass. Harry did some jaw-clenching of his own.

Sirius was just emerging from the kitchen door, looking harried and worried. That didn't ease on finding Harry coming toward him. He jogged the distance, actually, and took Harry in the circle of his arm, reversing his trajectory to hustle Harry back inside. A knot of Aurors had taken over the kitchen and the downstairs, all of them openly armed. Savage took Harry's other side, getting an over-hard grip on Harry's biceps that made him squawk, but it went ignored as the Aurors formed a phalanx about him and Sirius that pushed Harry along toward the big hearth-- the Floo. 'What's going on?' Harry demanded, but there was no slowing. Scrimgeour was there, and flung a handful of powder into the Floo, snapping out 'The Ministry, now,' and then Harry was torn away from the Burrow by the flames.

The twirl and tumble spat him out, Savage still manhandling him. Sirius arrived a moment later, to throw a cloak over Harry's head before he could catch more than a dizzied glimpse of where he'd been Flooed to-- marble, he had an impression of gleaming marble tile beneath his feet, stately gold and black everywhere. The cloak muffled the sounds of crowds of people, a clamour that rose to shouting as the crowd of Aurors all popped through the Floo. Harry had no choice but to stumble along, barely keeping his feet under him, wrenched this way and that by all the adults thrusting him along. He did finally tumble, tripped up by a slight rise in the floor, and yelped as his arm was nearly yanked out of its socket by Savage's grip on him when his legs gave out. He hit a metal wall, and Savage held him there as bodies piled in after them, and then the world went out from under him again as the floor dropped.

Lift. They were in a lift. And Sirius pulled the cloak off Harry's head and shoved Savage back, helping Harry to his feet and holding him close. Harry scraped at sweaty hair clinging to his face, righted his glasses. 'What's going on?' he tried again.

'Riddle's been sighted,' Sirius said tensely. 'And it's bad.'

His stomach flopped. The lift wrenched sideways, and Harry fumbled to find a handgrip, a bar or a bit of gold filigree to balance him. 'Draco? Percy?'

'Not here,' Savage grunted. 'We'll be in a secure area in a moment. Hold it til then, Lord Potter.'

'Sirius!' Harry demanded.

Sirius crushed him close, lips pressed to his hair. 'Crowhill,' he breathed in Harry's ear. 'He's struck Crowhill.'

 

 

**

 

 

That afternoon was the longest of Harry's life.

The Aurors had him and Sirius locked away in a secure room off one of the lower Courts. It was used to hold prisoners before their testimony, Sirius said, warded against magic from within and magic from without both. And that was nearly the last bit of information Harry had for an agonising six hours. No-one came in to talk to them. They weren't allowed to leave. He had to use the loo desperately, and conversely he was horribly parched, but Sirius just sat there brooding and enduring so Harry did as well, keeping very still and refusing to fidget.

The door opening at long last nearly jolted him out of his chair. It was Scrimgeour, and he was carrying a file. He shut the door behind him, and took the empty chair across the small table. Without a word, he opened the folder and began to lay out glossy photographs, lining them up one by one facing Harry and Sirius.

They were Wizarding, but there was no knowing that from the lack of movement. An errant bit of breeze stirring a bit of paper, a flame still flickering here and there. Had Harry not known what he was looking for, he wouldn't have known at all what it was he stared at.

Crowhill Boys' Home. Or what had been Crowhill Boys' Home.

That shattered wall was the Mess, Harry thought. And that, the shell of an upper storey with the roof torn off and the inner walls burnt of their wallpaper and plaster, he thought that was the teachers' offices. The dormitories had been shucked open like oysters, bunks blasted to splinters tumbled everywhere. The classrooms had all been blown apart, chairs and desks destroyed, chalkboards sheared in half, textbooks burnt in piles of char and ash.

'There's no bodies,' Harry said, hearing his voice as if from far away.

Scrimgeour's hand paused overtop the file. After a moment, he removed a final photograph. He handed it to Sirius, first, angled so that Harry couldn't glimpse it. Sirius's mouth twitched, pained, shocked. His eyes closed. He put the photograph face-down. Well. So that answered that.

'Remus wouldn't do this,' Harry said then.

'We had several Muggle witnesses. They all reported two men. Their descriptions match Pettigrew and Lupin.'

'He taught there for years,' Sirius added quietly. 'He even kept in touch with some of the Muggle boys this past year. He cared about them. He wouldn't hurt them.'

'The question of willing participation will be for the Wizengamot. The question of catching them is mine.' Scrimgeour let that sit heavy between them. 'It's a good target,' he said. 'From his point of view. Deeply personal to you, his professed enemy. Civilian, Muggle, even-- You Know Who liked that kind of target, too, the kind that threatened to expose our world, the kind that punished Blood traitors. We can't go about Obliviating the whole of Muggle Britain whenever he attacks a soft target. It forces us to kowtow to the Muggle government, and You Know Who--'

'Voldemort,' Harry said.

Scrimgeour pursed his lips. 'Voldemort,' he repeated in a clipped tone. 'Specialised in disrupting that already fragile relationship. This may be a pint-sized replica missing some crucial developments of the last fifty years, but Pettigrew and Lupin are sufficiently informed and we should assume they're passing on every tidbit their master would find interesting. During the war the Muggle government accused us of leaving them unprotected in order to preserve a silly fiction of official nonexistence, and they weren't far wrong. It won't take much to destroy that fragile peace, and lack of cooperation between our governments only compounds our problems. Lack of communication means crucial intelligence doesn't get shared. Lack of containment means word will get out amongst the Muggles, and every violation of the Statute of Secrecy puts us closer to censure from the International Confederation of Wizards, and censure puts us closer to sanctions, which means less material support. Lack of funding means I can't hire and train new Aurors to replace the ones who are killed fighting. As we do not have an army of our own, lack of Aurors means eventually the only people standing between Voldemort and victory are people like yourself, Master Harry, and the Order of the bloody Phoenix, who--'

'Do the hard things no-one else is doing,' Sirius spat.

'Who are not trained, who are not vetted, who are not responsible to anyone but themselves and Albus Dumbledore, who never has had and most definitely no longer has the authority to run black ops whenever he bloody pleases.'

'So what do you want me to do?' Harry asked.

'Nothing, Master Harry. Nothing I think you would be unwilling to do, that is. Answer questions so we can understand what happened Christmas Day, and escort a couple of frightened young boys home.'

'Boys from Crowhill?'

'We found them at Crowhill, yes, but they weren't residents there.'

The tiniest bit of hope flared in Harry's miserable gut. 'Draco and Percy.'

'Yes. Too soon to tell whether they were ditched because they were liabilities on the lam, or whether--'

'Remus and Wormtail got Tom Riddle to keep his word.'

'I've heard it said you've an interest in being an Auror, Master Harry. Let me give you this much advice, as someone who's already fought a war. Hope is just an opportunity for disappointment; and too much disappointment can very quickly become despair. Be grateful they're alive and safe. But don't speculate on why.'

'Can I see them?' Harry pressed, ignoring that.

Scrimgeour nodded. 'Mr Weasley's to go back to his family. Mr Malfoy's a harder case. The Aurors are investigating Mrs Malfoy's role, if any, in her husband's crimes. His nearest blood relative is his aunt, who's agreed to put him up in the interim.'

'He could stay with us.'

'The cottage is safer,' Sirius agreed, nose scrunching with a momentary reluctance that passed when he saw Harry's expression. He squeezed Harry's knee. 'Andromeda's been living as a Muggle all these years. Til we know for sure why Riddle ditched the boys, it'd be better to keep them in homes with a helluva lot of magical protection.'

Scrimgeour's fingers tapped on the table. 'Hard to disagree. All right. You've your work cut out for you, though, Master Harry. That is a very unhappy boy, and we'll be ages yet unravelling exactly what it is young Mr Malfoy did under the diary's direction. He hasn't been in a sharing mood. Perhaps you could coax a little more from him.'

Bill had warned him off implicating Percy, when the black book had first started making trouble. But if Harry had pressed on it, if Harry had told what he'd suspected, maybe they would've learnt sooner about Wormtail and spared everyone a lot of horrible things. Then again, the Aurors had known about the black book and the petrifications and even the Chamber of Secrets and hadn't done anything in time to stop it erupting. If Draco could be coaxed into telling Harry anything, he could decide then what to do about it.

Sirius pushed the photograph of the bodies back across the table. 'Let's go, then,' he said. 'Or none of us'll be home before midnight.'

 

 

 

The Aurors had at least not let Draco and Percy alone in cells like criminals. Or at least not after they'd determined they could release them from custody. It wasn't a far walk at all, just a few turns down the corridor. The boys were sat together on the lowest tier of benches in one of the courtrooms, huddled in grey blankets with their heads low, silent, still, but for Percy's arm about Draco's shoulders.

Harry ran the last couple of steps. Had second thoughts. Slowed, swayed to a stop in front of them, two pairs of wide eyes angling up toward his. He sank to his knees, and took the hands that reached back to him, Percy's in his left, Draco's in his right. He was shaking, or maybe all three of them were. He put his head in Draco's lap, squeezing his eyes shut against the cold rims of his glasses digging in.

'I'm sorry,' Draco whispered above him, shattered and small. 'I'm sorry, Harry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry--'

Harry nodded. His eyes were wet as he sat up, his knuckles creaking from the force of the grip between his hands and theirs. Percy's lower lip trembled, streaks in the dirt on his face. Ash. The ashy remains of Crowhill, Harry's first home. They were both caked in it, their hair, their clothes.

'Harry,' Percy croaked. He fumbled in his pocket, and dragged something free into the dim light. He pressed it into Harry's hand.

A broken stick of chalk. From Crowhill. One end blunted from writing on a blackboard. Harry freed a hand gingerly, reached to take the chalk. Chalk.

'Remus?' he asked thickly.

'He tried to get the boys out,' Percy said hoarsely. 'Some of them did get away.'

'He's not all gone then.' Harry rubbed his sleeve under his eyes. 'You're all right?' he managed. 'Both of you?'

'Yes. They didn't touch us. Not really.'

'Not really?'

'We're all right,' Draco repeated. His fingers tripped from the pommel of the sword over Harry's shoulder to the scar on Harry's cheek, cold where they pressed to skin. His arms went about Harry's neck, and he fell shuddering against Harry's shoulder. 'I want to go-- I-- I don't want to go home.'

'You don't have to. Come home with me.'

Draco nodded. Nodded and went on nodding, breathing hot and humid into Harry's neck, shivers taking him now and then. Percy's hands were on their shoulders. Harry found one of them and held it with all his strength.

'Come on, boys,' Sirius called quietly from the doors.

'Let's go,' Harry urged them. He stood, trying to draw Draco with him, shoulder Draco when his knees couldn't support him. Percy helped. Sirius helped Percy, so Percy could lean on someone, too, and like that they all went out, together.


	21. Bygone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which One Forgets In Order To Forgive._

'He doesn't like to be held,' the social worker said. 'He's mostly quiet, only answers direct questions. Doesn't respond to his name-- we'd like to continue working on that.'

'Age?'

'Four, or thereabouts. He didn't know his birthdate. File's assigned him 31 July-- I think it was a little kindness from the policeman who found him, a way to give him a bit of a party and some presents. These are his things. He doesn't come equipped with much. There's a stipend for clothes, necessities. Save your receipts, the usual processing. He's bound to hit a growth spurt at some point.'

The man with the clipboard nodded. 'Any issues in his profile?'

'Classic abuse victim. People-pleasing, insomnia, compulsive behaviour patterns. Watch out for the finger-picking; he'll do himself a harm if you don't stop him. Possible eating disorder. We've had him on a weight-gain diet. He needs to be encouraged to finish a meal. He'll stick half of it in his pockets and hide it in his bed.'

'That will not be allowed here. We've a strict inspection routine. And there's no time to stand over him coaxing every mouthful into him. If he doesn't eat, he'll just go hungry.'

The social worker scowled at this. 'I'll be checking in regularly,' she said. 'Try to pretend you don't actually want a child to suffer unduly.' She placed the bag she carried on the empty bunk, and crouched in front of the boy. 'Harry,' she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. 'Harry, time to say good-bye, love.'

Harry met her eyes reluctantly, only when she reached to touch his cheek. 'We go now?' he asked.

'No, sweetheart, I'm going. You're going to stay here.' Her chocolate-coloured hand surrounded his, rubbed soothingly at his knuckles. 'You're going to live here now. You're going to make lots of new friends, and have so much fun. And you're going to start school, that's exciting, isn't it? The next time I see you I want to hear all about everything you've learnt.'

Harry chewed at his lip til she warned him off with a light tap on the chin. 'We go now,' he said again.

'Is he speech impaired?'

'He wasn't allowed to speak before.' She smiled at Harry, and gently disengaged from his hold. She stood. 'He's a fast learner. Socialisation is best for him now. He'll rise toward norms the more he's exposed to other children already operating at age-appropriate levels. I wouldn't be surprised if he exceeds them, at some point. He's a special boy, this one.'

'Boys are boys,' the man with the clipboard replied indifferently, and presented the paperwork to her. 'Sign transfer and I'll show you out, Ms Mosaku. You-- Potter? You're to go to the game room til afternoon classes begin. Your bunkmate will be Aamir Hussein. He'll fetch you and show you about. You'll be on Kitchen Duty your first week, til you settle in. Got all that? Yes? No? Any sign of life in there?'

'Yes,' Harry said.

'Yes, sir.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Welcome to Crowhill,' the man said, and showed the social worker out the door, closing Harry in alone.

 

 

**

 

 

Dobby flung back the curtains with a snap of his fingers, and waved a plate of heavily sweetened porridge beneath Harry's nose. 'Upsie daisey, no time to be lazy!'

Harry scrunched his eyes closed. He was really beginning to hate that.

'Nnng,' the head buried beneath all the pillows at Harry's right grunted. Draco shoved aside all the covers he'd been hogging all night and emerged with a owl's nest for hair and smeary eyes squinting against the light. 'Nnnng... Dobby?'

Dobby beamed at him. 'Mister Draco is awake! Would he like his café au lait?'

'You're the one who drinks that?' Harry fumbled at his bedside table for his glasses, sighing when Dobby provided them on a small gold platter he'd dug up somewhere. 'He keeps offering it and I have no idea what it is.'

'It's too early for you to be showing off your lack of education and culture.' Draco pushed himself upright using Harry's stomach, earning a wheeze as Harry's lungs were squeezed like bellows. Draco propped himself against the wall, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand and broadcasting grumpy boy loud enough to be picked up by the weatherman in Berkshire. 'Why are you here, Dobby?' Draco demanded, putting out the other hand for the steaming cup the house elf provided.

Dobby's ears drooped just slightly, shoulders falling into a familiar hunch. He looked to Harry for rescue, and, with another sigh to cover the entirety of what was sure to be a disastrous day, Harry provided it.

'It happened while you were gone,' Harry said, and sat up himself. 'Your dad freed Dobby, and I gave him a job.'

'Oh.' Draco's immediate response was not, at least, to fly into a temper, as Harry had mostly expected, or to accuse Harry of being so stubbornly Muggle, employing a house elf instead of buying him properly, or some other lecture about Harry's perpetual and unfixable vulgarity. But the moment for it passed, and Draco just sipped his cafe-whatever-it-was, tugging at the loose hem of his borrowed sleeping shirt and staring out the window.

'Dobby is very glad Mister Draco is safe,' Dobby decided it was allowable to say. He loaded a tray bursting with breakfast dishes onto the bed-- he'd really gone all out, Harry knew they didn't have anything like pastry in the cottage, much less all those fancy things covered in icing sugar and fresh slivered almonds and fruit preserves. Dobby tried one plate after another til he found something that tempted Draco, and patted his knee soothingly. 'Mister Draco is being a very good boy and eats all his breakfast.'

Harry confined himself to a few spoonfuls of his porridge. 'You must have slept some,' he observed, when Draco had finished his drink and Dobby had coaxed a few more pastries into him.

'Toward morning, I think,' Draco said.

'That's good. Suppose it might be nice to be in a proper bed again.'

His fishing for detail did not go unnoticed. 'We had beds,' Draco said, and turned his face away from Dobby's offering of custard and blueberries. 'We stayed in houses.'

'Whose houses?' Harry nudged Draco's knee with his bare foot. 'All right, never mind. Sorry. Want to go flying today? You could use Sirius's broom.'

'No.'

'You can't stay in bed all day.'

'It's warm in here.'

'Be warm downstairs, too. We can have a fire, can't we, Dobby? We'll watch telly.'

'Who's Telly? Another house elf?'

'Television,' Harry corrected himself. 'It's a moving picture on a screen, like a radio play but you see the people-- Never mind that, either. Just come downstairs and we'll find something to do.'

'I don't feel well.'

Harry scooted down the bed, putting the back of his hand to Draco's forehead like Madam Pomfrey had always done. 'You're cool,' he said, testing for swelling beneath Draco's jaw and letting his hand fall when Draco leant out of his grip. 'I know you don't want to,' he said then. 'But I think you should.'

'If I want to have a lie-in that's none of your business.'

'For me, then. Because if you won't let me help you I'll go mad.'

'Not everything is your responsibility, Potter.'

'No, just nearly everything.'

Draco's eyes swooped closed. His lashes were pale as lace against the bruise-like swoops under his eyes. 'All right,' he agreed quietly. He slid out of bed, landing with a thud on the rug. He patted Dobby on the head. 'Do you really have to sleep with the sword?'

Harry had left it propped up against the windowsill last night. He looked down now to find it under the sheet, nestled in with them. 'Long story.'

'There's a lot of those going round right now.' Draco dragged on trousers as Dobby supplied them. They were what he'd been wearing when they'd found him, his school uniform, though washed and pressed under Dobby's care. Draco sat back on the edge of the bed, then, and took Harry's hand in his. He held it to his cheek.

'You know I don't care,' Harry said. 'About what you did. I mean-- I meant to say, I care, of course I care what happened to you, I just...'

'Don't say you forgive me.'

'I do, though.'

'Harry,' Draco said, and let him go. 'One day I'll do something you won't forgive.'

He didn't give Harry a chance to say that wouldn't happen. He left the bedroom, slipping out barefooted and vanishing down the hall to the loo. Dobby tugged unhappily at his long ears, giving off a little whimper.

'Yeah,' Harry agreed.

 

 

**

 

 

'So the automobile is Apparating?'

'No, it's a time machine,' Harry explained patiently, taking a handful of popcorn from the bowl. 'It uses the plutonium to go back in time, not just go between places like Apparating.'

Draco was frowning severely at Harry's new television, chewing at his thumbnail more than the snacks Dobby had provided them. 'And that lady's his mother from 1985?'

'Yeah, remember she said she met his dad when her father hit George with a car? Only now that didn't happen, or it happened to Marty McFly, so he's got to find a way to make them fall in love so they'll still get married and have him, otherwise he won't exist.'

Draco's brows twitched even closer together. 'But they don't have enough of the plu-- plu--'

'Plutonium. So the lightning bolt is the only thing that'll generate 1.21 gigawatts of electricity, which is what they need to make the car travel through time again.'

'Stop talking like that,' Draco complained, giving his head a shake. 'You sound like a madman.'

'I sound like a Muggle,' Harry said. 'Well, like a Muggle in a movie.'

'He hates Muggles.'

Harry very carefully did not look. He pretended to be absorbed completely in Marty McFly's performance on guitar at the dance. 'I think he hates most people and most things.'

'Not the way he hates Muggles.' Draco drew his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms about them. 'He pretended to be Pureblood, at first. He told me he was from an old line, one of the oldest. And he knew things, he knew all the right things. And the things he would say about Muggles... my mother and father say those things. Everyone I knew growing up said those things. I used to say those things.'

'You don't say them anymore.'

'Not since you.' When Harry risked a glance, Draco was still chewing at his thumbnail, his eyes on the television. 'The Muggles weren't good to you.'

'They weren't bad to me.'

'But you were in an orphanage.'

'Lots of boys are in care. For lots of reasons, not just because of people like the Dursleys.'

'He was in a place like Crowhill,' Draco said, so quietly Harry was almost unsure he'd heard correctly. But then Draco drew in a long slow breath, and said, 'When he saw in the newspaper that you'd lived, he was... was mad. Raving. He broke everything in the room, he was shattering all the glass and Remus... Remus said...'

'What.'

'He said bad blood will out. He meant it about Tom. And Tom said I'll show you blood. And he said we were going to go find your family, your dirty Mudblood family that had raised you and he would destroy them, he would torture them and he would make sure they knew it was because of you, and I...'

It came to Harry then. Yes. 'You knew I hadn't been raised by them. You knew about Crowhill.'

'Harry.'

They both jumped. It was Sirius, who'd come in under the noise of the telly and their talk, so deeply concentrated they'd been on each other. And behind him was Tonks, who looked as though she wished she could unhear Draco's confession, a silent curse on her lips and pained sympathy in her eyes. Sirius looked colder, icy, his hands hanging at his sides in fists.

But all Sirius said was, 'We're passing sentence today. Only there's been a last-minute request, and I've been asked to deliver it to you.'

'To me?' Harry paused the video playback, and twisted about to look up at Sirius. 'What request?'

'One of the accused wishes to speak with you.'

'Oh, it's not Lockhart, is it?'

A small smile twitched at Sirius's mouth before it went flat again. 'No. No Mark on him. He'll get off, more's the pity. He's been telling a pretty story about being targeted for his world-wide reknown and famous skills. The Aurors have tested his wand, and he's got a highly suspicious number of Obliviations, going back years before he ever came to Hogwarts, which is probably what they used to blackmail him into working with them. Moony-- Remus had a hunch and he'd already had the Order looking into it.' Sirius paused, lips parted, then abruptly bit them together. 'I don't think you should go.'

There were only two other people it could be, and if it was Mr Malfoy who wanted to speak to Harry, Harry didn't see how he could deny Draco a chance to speak to his father. But as he fumbled for a way to say that, Tonks read his hesitation, and said softly, 'It's Snape.'

Harry dropped his eyes. To the sword, laid beside him on the rug. 'Did he say why... why he wants to speak to me?'

'He says it's private, between the two of you.'

In a very clipped voice Sirius interjected, 'He's got no business having a private chat with a boy he tried to murder.'

'It wasn't his fault,' Harry said. 'Tonks, you know it wasn't. Sirius.'

'Fault or not, he did try, Harry. And he came too damned close for my comfort. Not to mention what happened to the rest of us, and you can't convince me he didn't choose to use that Unforgiveable on me, he's been gagging to do it for a decade--'

'Sirius,' Tonks stopped him, in the tone of a woman who'd had to do so more times than she cared to and had no patience left for the business. 'Harry, you don't have to go. Snape can provide a written statement if he likes, then you can decide if you want to read it or not.'

'No, I'll go.' Harry climbed to his feet. 'We can go now?'

'Sirius,' Tonks warned, and Sirius clicked his jaws tightly shut. 'Yes, love, we can go now. They'll have brought all the prisoners over for sentencing, so we'll have a little bit of time, if we hurry. Draco-- do you want me to get you some time with your father?'

Take it, Harry urged him silently. Draco caught his eyes, and looked away.

'No,' Draco said.

'But you'll come with me?' Harry asked. 'Then you could, you know, you could think on it and change your mind, if you liked. I'm sure they could do that if you changed your mind.'

'No. I don't. Won't.' Draco hugged himself into a little ball. 'Maybe.'

'I'll get your coats,' Sirius muttered, and stomped out the way he'd come.

 

 

 

Draco stroked the ragged fur of a stuffed dragon before discarding it with a sigh. 'Are you really going to talk to Snape?'

Harry sat himself a low table meant for much smaller bodies. The Ministry was abuzz with activity as always, but the unusual session of the Wizengamot had taken up all available resources. No unusued interrogation chambers or empty courtrooms in the middle of the day. This room had brightly painted walls, stacks of paper and coloured pencils scattered amidst less familiar Wizarding toys. Little fairie figurines with fluttering wings like a Golden Snitch. Chocolate frog cards with battered corners. Dumbledore was missing from his card, Harry noticed. He didn't realise the little ball of pink fluff was a living thing til he poked it and it squawked at him, a tiny furred face emerging to blink enormous black eyes at him.

'Pigmy puff,' Draco said, and squatted awkwardly into a chair beside Harry. 'This place is meant for children.'

'They think we are children,' Harry replied. He selected a blue pencil and a piece of paper. 'I remember rooms like this. They used to put me in rooms like this to be interviewed. When they were trying to figure out who I was and where I'd come from. Muggle police.'

Draco's eyes lit on his with something like startlement. 'No-one ever adopted you. I presume you were perfectly adorable.'

'Odd things happened around me,' Harry said. 'I was odd. I think Muggles knew when they met me there was something wrong with me.'

'Sometimes people say we should remove all Muggleborn children for their own safety. Raise them Wizarding from the beginning.'

'If you did that, what would you have to feel superior about?' Harry sketched a tentative outline, not sure what precisely he was drawing. He changed blue for green. 'I didn't mind being Muggle. I didn't know there was another choice, I suppose. I didn't even mind being different, much. I reckon I didn't realise there was another choice for that, either. Still isn't.'

Draco's gaze slid past Harry's face to just over his shoulder. To the hilt of the sword poking up from the scabbard. Harry shrugged to make it move, and Draco jumped a bit.

A knock was their only warning. Harry put his hand on Draco's, where it clenched to a fist on the tabletop. Neither boy rose. The door opened, and the Aurors escorted in the prisoner.

Severus Snape was more sallow-skinned than ever, his nose jutting like a beak from cheeks gone gaunt. His grey robe was made of ragged seams and inferior cloth, degrading by design, but it was the empty sleeve on the left that Harry saw. His mouth went dry.

'Ten minutes,' the Auror said, and closed them in alone.

Harry found his hands were sweating. Hands. At least he had both hands. But the words of apology wouldn't come. He touched the sword, the cool metal of the pommel behind his head. Snape's black eyes followed the movement. Whatever he felt, seeing the weapon that had crippled him, he didn't show a whit of it.

'I'm going to need a rather larger chair,' was all Snape said.

'There's magic-suppressing wards on the room,' Draco began, but Harry, eager for something, anything to do, was already moving. He touched the chair beside him, and said, 'Grow.'

The sword shivered a bit at his back. Just a pulse. The chair sprouted up a foot, spilling out at the sides and then tightening up again in a seat big enough for a tall man. It overshot, just a bit, to a chair that might have been more comfortable for Hagrid, but all things considered it wasn't a bad job done.

Snape took that in with just a breath to steady himself. He moved from the door, drew the chair away from the table, and sat in it. Without cringeing. Harry swallowed. He picked up the brown pencil, and returned to his drawing.

'Professor McGonagall will be glad to see you've solved your problem with Transfiguration.'

'I only made it bigger, I didn't change it.'

'It was metal,' Snape said.

That made Harry look. The chair was very plainly wooden now. So, in fact, was the chair Harry sat in, and Draco's, too. Harry put his head down so he wouldn't have to see it.

'Mr Potter.'

'Why did you plead guilty,' Harry said to the paper under his hand. 'You're not guilty.'

'I am,' Snape replied. 'In any way that matters.'

'Not in this specific charge. You didn't help Riddle.'

'I could not prevent--' Snape's voice went vanishingly dry. 'I did not wish to--'

'I know.'

'Yet you cannot look at me.'

'You couldn't stop yourself.' Harry dug the tip of the pencil so hard it nearly gouged the paper through. 'I could've.'

'You seem to think I'm ungrateful. Mr Potter-- Master Harry--'

'Don't. Don't, I hate that name, I hate it.'

'Just Harry, then,' Snape said quietly. 'Harry. Please look at me.' He waited, and waited longer when it became clear Harry had no intention of obeying. 'Your mother had a particularly aggressive form of eye contact, did you know that? It made her a very good prefect and Head Girl. A very challenging friend to have. A natural Legilimens.'

Harry coloured in a swoop of brown. 'Like Dumbledore.'

'Like Dumbledore, though she chose not to develop the talent. She preferred to think of it as intuition. The thought of invading minds was repulsive to her. Especially as it became clear it was a favoured tool of the Dark Lord.' Snape waited, again, but Harry refused to speak even at this temptation. 'Do you think Tom Riddle passed up the opportunity to read you in the Chamber? However Pettigrew and Lupin brought him back, they brought him back possessed of all his innate powers. And told him more than enough to know you are the boy who brought him low, not once but twice. He entered your mind, Harry, do not doubt that he did, but he still failed to destroy you, and he failed to destroy you because he failed once again to understand you. Because he cannot believe that there is no difference between your innermost desires and your actions.'

'I'm not anything special.'

'Your father was nothing special. Even your mother, God bless her memory, was nothing special. You are. Whether it's some philosopher's business about Diamond Souls or the strange coincidences that led you to be marked by the Dark Lord, you are something unique. That sword in your hand did what no magic should be able to do. Look, Potter.'

Harry tried to turn his head away. Draco was a blur of tears, to his other side, who rose to stand at Harry's shoulder, his hand warm on Harry's neck. Wet dripped onto Harry's wrist. He pushed his glasses up to wipe his face, but Draco beat him to it. Draco's thumb swiped gently, and then his fingers grasped Harry's chin and turned him. Snape had laid his arm on the table. The stump of his arm. Harry had hewn it just below the elbow, and someone had healed the burn where Harry had sealed the wound with fire. It was still a gruesome thing, for looking not very gruesome at all. Harry's hand trembled, reaching across the distance. He let his palm curve over the stump, as he'd done once to that arm when Snape showed him the Mark.

'Do you want me to fix it,' he asked hoarsely. 'I can try.'

'I believe you could. But I prefer you not to. I much prefer this to what was there before.'

'Your potions...'

'I doubt they'll allow me to brew in Azkaban,' Snape said, with a shade of his usual scathing wit. But he covered Harry's hand with his sole remaining one, yellowed fingers hesitating before they settled with strength. 'The Mark, Harry. I have loathed the sight of it since the moment he branded me. And you knew. In that moment in the Chamber of Secrets you saw what I needed most, what I desired most, and you gave it to me. That's what Tom Riddle read in you. That's what he fears in you. And that's... that's why you will win.'

'I don't want a war.'

'You'll have one,' Snape predicted. 'But you are fit for your purpose.'

'Then I'll need you,' Harry said recklessly. 'Don't give up.'

'I am guilty of everything they say--'

'So?'

A rap at the door. It hadn't been ten minutes. That was a warning.

'Fight,' Harry said. 'Please. If I'm to be whatever you think I am. I don't... I don't want to be that alone.'

The Aurors didn't wait, this time. They came in, and Savage went straight for Snape, hauling him to his feet. Draco squeezed his shoulder in warning, but Harry didn't try to stop them taking Snape from the room. He'd said his piece. If what Harry really thought of anything mattered at all, Snape would have to decide whether he fancied being a martyr more than being right about destiny and all that blather. The Snape Harry knew cared a lot more about being right than almost anything else. Harry hoped.

Draco sank back into his chair. 'Sometimes I really don't understand you,' he said.

Harry wiped at the last smear of wet on his cheek and rubbed his nose. 'What's to understand?'

'You don't want to lead, but you'd be really good at it. You say you're not special, but you are.'

'Oh, not you too, honestly.'

'Don't get shirty,' Draco told him in that old stuck-up way of his, but it faded to something harder, something uglier. 'Tom wouldn't stop talking about how special he was,' Draco said then. 'He's so full of himself it leaks out at the seams. Sometimes I think you're acting as much as he did. You can't possibly be as gormless as you pretend--'

'I'm not either full of myself.'

'No, you're not,' Draco agreed. 'And that's the strangest thing about you. Because you should be. What's Tom Riddle got that you don't? You're a Parselmouth, too, and you found the Chamber of Secrets, just like he did, and you can do magic like the great wizards of the past. And you can make people do what you want them to do. You do it all the time with the Weasel and your Knights. Remus and Sirius. Me. Snape, just now. Except you don't seem to realise any of that, and then I think you can't be acting, because what's the gain in pretending you don't know your own power? At least Tom knows what to do with his gifts.'

Harry shoved the pencils and the paper off the table in a flurry of fluttering white, and sent the toys after them, and Draco too when Draco tried to touch him. 'You think I want to be this way?' Harry shouted at him, heat flashing up his chest and into his head and suddenly it felt good to be screaming, he wanted to scream and never stop. 'You think I could possibly want that? I just want to be _normal_ \--'

'Well you're not,' Draco retorted brutally, and shoved Harry right back, gripped him by the shirt and shoved him stumbling backward tripping over building blocks and a model of a castle and the shaft of a toy broom til they hit a wall, and Draco ground him into it. They scuffled, jabbing each other mostly accidentally with an errant elbow or a fist slipping for purchase, and then Harry managed to flip them so it was Draco slamming into the plaster and Harry holding him up against it. 'Ow,' Draco howled, when Harry trod on his foot, but the minute Harry eased his grip in remorse Draco seized back leverage and pushed him over backward. Harry landed on the carpet in a clatter of uncoordinated limbs and sword, and Draco landed on top of him, slapping down his hands and batting at his face. 'You're not,' Draco was swearing at him through clenched teeth, 'you're not, you're not, _you're not!'_

'Fine!' Harry hollered at him. 'I'm not normal and I never will be! I don't have to like it!'

'Do you know what Tom wanted with me?' Draco demanded. 'He wanted all my memories of you. At first he just asked me to write what I knew in the diary, and he flattered me about how close I was to you and how you'd let me know things none of the others did, like knowing about Crowhill before anyone else, but that wasn't enough to understand you. After the Chamber-- after the Chamber, he-- he--'

Harry let his head thunk back to the floor. His temper bled away, and the heat of their fight with it. He felt cold in its wake. Like a wrung-out tea towel, limp and used up.

'He'd spend hours in my mind,' Draco whispered. 'Digging and digging. It felt like-- claws. Clawing me into pieces to search through. And he'd keep what he liked and discard what he didn't and I was just a-- just a bin of things about Harry bloody Potter and when I didn't have any more to give he said he ought to do the world a favour and just be rid of me--'

'I would have killed him for that.'

'But I don't think you would,' Draco said, and his head drooped to his chest, all the fight leaving him, too, and he drooped til his forehead rested on Harry's shoulder. 'Not even for Remus. And if not for him, you'd never do it for me. I'm nothing. I'm nothing.'

'Draco.'

'You cut off Snape's bloody arm and he'll fight a war because you ask him to. He's my godfather and he didn't even look at me.'

'Draco.' Harry wrapped an arm about Draco shuddering ribcage, turned his cheek to Draco's sweaty temple. 'You're not nothing. You're not.'

'You're not normal.'

'I'm not normal.'

'You're special. And that makes me something, that makes me something, if you're special and I'm your knight.'

'My friend,' Harry said. 'Just be my friend, will you? I need that more than I need knights. Knights only help you fight. I need--' His voice cracked. 'I know how to fight. I need someone to help me figure out the rest of it.'

 

 

 

Harry waited outside for the next visit, not because Draco asked him to but because he thought Draco wanted it even if he wouldn't ask for it. Harry loitered in the corridor with Savage and a pair of Aurors he didn't know, watching through the magical window the Aurors used to monitor the playroom, all of them keenly interested and taking notes except for Harry, who wondered what it was he should be feeling, and unsure what it was he did feel.

Mr Malfoy wore the same grey robe as Snape, his long blond hair looking unusually greasy and unkempt, his chin stubbled with whispy beard. No-one had hacked off any body parts, but he'd taken curse damage in the battle of the Chamber of Secrets, and he moved gingerly, as if every joint were full of broken glass. It didn't stop him kneeling in front of Draco, reaching up to cup his hands to Draco's face.

Harry turned his back then. Savage didn't, but he crossed his arms and scowled. 'Don't be fooled,' he told Harry abruptly. 'They can look human and act human, but they're still Dark.'

'No-one's born Dark. They have to learn it. So they can unlearn it,' Harry replied.

Savage's icy eyes bored into him. 'That the official opinion of the Saviour of the Wizarding World?'

'Yeah,' Harry said. 'It is. By the way, you've a beetle on you.'

 

 

**

 

 

Sirius told him afterward. Fudge was whipping his bloc of votes for heavy sentences in Azkaban, hoping to portray himself as tough on crime. Scrimgeour, through his departmental head Amelia Bones, pushed for time served, in hopes of being able to turn the three men into agents for the Aurors, or so Sirius suspected. Madam Bones dropped broad hints of dark times to come and the need for strategy and foresight, and made promises just as extravagent as Fudge's in a fine display of back-alley wheeling-and-dealing. A third party had emerged in the later hours, traditionalists stubbornly holding out for a world that wasn't and hadn't been what they thought it was since the days of Grindelwald. At least Malfoy can rest knowing he spent his father's fortune well, Sirius said sourly; the conservatives were for blood over evidence no matter how the truth stared them in the face.

The Wizengamot deadlocked. Hour after hour ticked by, but no-one could bring enough votes to settle the matter. Rita Skeeter's headline dominated the front page of a special evening edition of _The Daily Prophet_.

_**BOY WHO LIVED CALLS FOR MERCY FOR THREE ACCUSED OF CHAMBER BETRAYAL** _

The vote came through in the early morning hours. Madam Bones's motion carried the majority, by three votes. And carried the motion Bones tabled immediately after, to enact emergency measures, including keeping the Wizengamot in session and instructing the Auror Corps to investigate and report within the week what could be done to capture those who had escaped the Chamber of Secrets.

Sirius squeezed Harry's shoulder. 'So that's that, then.'

'Sirius? If they find them... if they find them, they'll only try to capture them, won't they? Not-- not to kill them.'

'Go to sleep, Harry.'

'Sirius?'

'Just go to sleep,' Sirius said, and slipped out of Harry's bedroom in the dark, the sound of four paws and claws on the floorboards the only sign he'd ever been there.

Draco rolled to face him, resting his chin on Harry's shoulder. 'What will you do?' he asked softly.

'I don't know,' Harry said. 'I really wish I did.'


	22. Clean-Up Aisle Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which The Heavy Lifting Begins._

It was an all-day affair removing the basilisk from the Chamber of Secrets. Scrimgeour's Aurors led the effort, but with a suspiciously high population of Order of the Phoenix 'subject matter experts' on hand to facilitate. And, Harry was wearily pleased to see, Professor Flitwick and Rubeus Hagrid, genuine subject matter experts, who returned to Hogwarts to see an end to the bitter events that had led to their exile. Rita Skeeter was not allowed on the grounds to photograph the event, and wrote a very sulky article about being stranded at the gates and fed only a judicious amount of official release pablum.

Harry, however, was a required attendee as the resident expert in speaking to serpents. Hunter-Killer-Striker was in considerable distress, not to mention pain from his destroyed eyes. Creatures like basilisks, Hagrid explained to him, could not die of old age or disease, and so their bodies had no means to heal from injury. When Fawkes had clawed out Hunter's deadly eyes to save everyone in the Chamber, he had inflicted an injury that could only be reversed through extraordinary magic-- phoenix tears being one curative that might just work, if only the Ministry were to allow it. Harry did quite understand why Scrimgeour found the thought of a master-less basilisk happily at large in Great Britain petrifying folk whenever it needed a snack appalling, but Hunter's despair cut tragically at him. Worse, Harry could not promise Hunter would be well cared for: he was going to the Department of Mysteries to be studied by the Unspeakables. No-one seemed quite sure what they would do with Hunter, but Harry understood it to be something of a bargain struck to keep the Unspeakables out of the Chamber, a line which Dumbledore categorically refused to cross. Indeed, short of being suspended as Headmaster by the school governors and replaced by someone else, Dumbledore had, as Harry heard it, nearly limitless authority over the school and its property, and with one Governor just freshly pardoned by the Wizengamot and several others being subjected to the _Daily Prophet_ 's trial by press for failing to save the lives of students during the crisis, there was little chance of Dumbledore being turned out.

So Harry talked Hunter through the process of being released from the many layers of magical chains and wards and whatnought that had held him prisoner the last week and no, please don't rampage, it's no good, really-- coordinating a group Apparation that would side-along an immensely large and very unhappy basilisk to the surface required a lot of calculations and disagreements and worry that ended, thankfully, in success as Flitwick led the gathered wizards in a countdown to a vanishment. Harry, standing back by then against one of the standing stones well out of the way, breathed out a sigh of relief when the Chamber was suddenly plunged back into quiet, the flicker of the torches the only sign of air rushing in to fill all the vacated space.

'Y'done well, Harry,' Hagrid told him gruffly, rubbing a sausage-sized finger under his eye to catch a tear. He snuffled mightily. 'What a thing, that. A basilisk, all this time.'

Harry patted Hagrid's woolly sleeve. 'I'm glad everyone knows you're not guilty now, Hagrid.'

Well, _everyone_ was stretching things a bit. The _Prophet_ would hardly be printing a retraction of the slanderous things they'd said about Hagrid, or even apologising for suggesting Hagrid was behind the murders past and present. But, Harry thought, craning his head to look up at his large friend, he thought the person most relieved to learn the truth was Hagrid himself.

Hagrid mopped his craggy face again, both eyes leaking freely now. 'Can hardly believe it. Tom was alwus good to me, Harry, he was gentle as they come.'

'I'm sorry, but I don't think that's really true,' Harry said quietly.

Hagrid's bulky shoulders shuddered. 'He'd write me letters sometimes. Jus' to say hullo and tell me 'bout his travels. He went all over the world, y'know, saw the most fascinatin' creatures, and he'd tell me all about them and ask for my opinion. Imagine a wizard like Tom Riddle askin' my opinion about anything.'

Harry could imagine. He knew what it was like to be invisible, or nearly. He'd never had a letter from anyone who cared about his existence til his Hogwarts invitation. Yes, he could well believe Hagrid had hungered for any connection, and let himself believe Tom Riddle was worth it. 'I'm sorry,' he said again, and he did mean it, for Hagrid's sake. He really did.

'Harry.'

Dumbledore. Yes. There was still that to do. Harry drew a deep breath, and left Hagrid's side with a final squeeze. The Headmaster awaited him there in the centre of the standing stones, Sirius at his side talking in a low voice that didn't carry, and a familiar mulish look on his face. Sirius reached for Harry as he neared, putting a possessive, protective hand out that stopped Harry getting too near Dumbledore; Sirius, at least, seemed in no mood to forgive Dumbledore his pointed absence this long week, or for bringing Harry to the Chamber in the first place. Or, perhaps, Sirius's reluctance had something to do with fact that Dumbledore looked to be gunning for the title of Worst Nervous Breakdown. His robes had a distinctly unkempt look, as if he'd been sleeping in them, his beard was crimped and hung crooked from too many twists about his finger, and his face had a craggy pale cast to it that spoke of too much mania and too little rest. That, and he still wore the Sorting Hat. It was the Sorting Hat that really concerned Harry, all told, and the way Dumbledore hadn't spoken a word to anyone but the Hat since they'd reunited in the Chamber to deal with Hunter.

'Professor,' Harry greeted him warily. 'Would you maybe like to sit down?'

Dumbledore abruptly focussed on Harry, eyes keen behind his crooked half-moon spectacles. 'Your concern warms me, my boy,' he said, 'but I'm afraid we have little time to rest. There is a great deal yet to do-- a great many questions that require answers.'

'I think maybe Harry's done enough for today,' Sirius said. 'We'll get him a good night's sleep at home and I'll bring him back tomorrow. Or the next day.'

'There is _no time_.' Dumbledore didn't need Sirius's stiff denial. He checked his own momentum, closing his eyes, removing his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose. 'Forgive me. But I do believe we must confirm at least some number of things, to ensure Harry's safety. I give my word that is my sole desire. Please.'

Maybe hearing his old mentor beg mollified Sirius. It rather appalled Harry, who could never have imagined such a genuine urgency from Dumbledore, who never rushed nor stumbled, who had only once before played this card with Harry-- when he'd wanted Harry to return to the Dursleys to renew the blood wards. But even that hadn't been this desperate, this afraid. Dumbledore's hands were shaking.

'All right,' Harry agreed, before Sirius could say otherwise. 'What is it you want me to do, sir? I can promise at least to listen.'

'Thank you.' Dumbledore nodded, and nodded again, no doubt in reply to a voice only he heard. The Sorting Hat had nothing like eyes nor a face with which to peer down at Harry, but it had a strange sort of presence nonetheless, and Harry felt he was being examined by the Headmaster and his skull-top passenger both. 'Harry,' Dumbledore said, 'Harry, we must find the black book.'

'Tom Riddle's diary? You don't have it?'

'I believe your friend repatriated it, following events in the Chamber.'

'My friend? RAB, you mean?'

'RAB?' Sirius repeated in an odd tone. 'Who do you mean, RAB?'

'Didn't you see him? I suppose everything happened so quickly. The ghost who came with us to the Chamber. He's the one who knew how to find it. He's the one who took the black book from Remus, I think.' Harry hesitated, remembering how he'd asked Remus if Sirius might have a spectral ancestor, one who looked so like him. And remembered, too, that Remus had put him off so skillfully Harry hadn't suspected a thing. The question of Sirius's ghostly doppelganger had gone into the large bucket of things that hadn't been important til quite suddenly they were.

'He's a ghost,' Harry explained carefully. 'He doesn't know who he is. But he looks younger than you, and he's-- Sir Nick says he's been here for a while, years, but he doesn't really speak to anyone and he's-- he's very sad, I think. Something awful happened to him, and I think it might have been Voldemort who did it. He's got a locket. There's a note in it, and he thinks he must have written it... I can't recall it exactly, but it was written to the Dark Lord and it said he knew Voldemort's secret and he'd stolen the real thingum and had destroyed it.'

Sirius had paled so much he rather resembled his ghostly relative in reverse. 'How did he die?'

'Well, I don't think he knows exactly, but he's all over water and mud. I reckon he probably drowned,' Harry said in a voice that got smaller as he realised Sirius did know who RAB was, and it was someone important to Sirius.

'Drowned,' Sirius said faintly. It was his turn to close his eyes and rub his nose, but his fingers were brushing away wet. 'Damn it, Reg.'

'Reg?'

'My brother.' Sirius smeared his sleeve across his eyes and set his jaw out at an angle that refused any more hurt. 'My younger brother, Regulus Arcturus Black. He died about-- about six months before your parents. About broke our father. Mummy dearest did break, with reality at least. Can't say I missed the parents, but Reg was just a stupid twat caught up in things too big for him.' He stared into the misting waterfall. 'And he's here, you said, at Hogwarts? All this time?'

'He knew the black book was dangerous. He knew it was Voldemort's, or something to do with Voldemort, at least. He's the one who knew how to find the Chamber.' Harry chewed his lip, thinking. Now he had the whole of RAB's name, it occurred to him he himself knew something about Regulus-- it had been Regulus Black's bedroom he'd stayed in, only a few weeks gone, at Sirius's family's house in London. Regulus's bedroom had been practically a mausoleum, but Sirius had never said Regulus was his brother and Harry hadn't ventured to ask, not with Sirius in such a wretched depression when they'd been there. 'We could ask the ghosts,' Harry volunteered slowly. 'Sir Nick would tell me, I think, even if RAB-- Regulus-- doesn't want to be found.'

Sir Nick, as it happened, did not want to give up Regulus's location, on the grounds of ghostly honour. Nor was he moved by Sirius's desire to find his lost brother, informing them that one's earthly bonds could not be expected to exert the same restraint once one had passed the Veil. The Headmaster's entreaty could not persuade him-- Dumbledore's authority over the castle grounds might extend to displacing a ghost who refused to cooperate, but if Dumbledore meant to exercise that authority he'd have long ago expelled Peeves the Poltergeist or the Bloody Baron. Sir Nick had nothing to fear there and knew it. But when Harry pleaded with him that it was terribly important they find Regulus, that Regulus would never rest easy in his afterlife til they had solved the mysteries that had put him in his grave, Sir Nicholas reluctantly gave over.

'But let me approach him first, my lords,' Sir Nick added then. 'I daresay if you startle him he may hence fly far from this place, to where none may find him.'

'Thank you, Sir Nick, really,' Harry said. 'We only want to help, I swear.'

'The word of the Boy Who Lived is sufficient to secure mine aid,' the ghost replied gallantly, and took off through the nearest wall.

'Could've used the word of the Boy Who Lived back in my school days,' Sirius muttered, pacing restlessly. 'Time was Sir Nick'd tattle to McGonagall faster'n we could run from the scene of the crime.'

'I distinctly recall several earnest reassurances that crime was the last thing on your mind, Mr Black,' Dumbledore replied, with a hint of his usual twinkle. That vanished when Sirius turned on him in sudden fury.

'Potter,' Sirius snarled at the old man. 'Lord Potter to you. And don't you forget it, the next time you walk my son off on a little adventure with basilisks and magical swords and fucking Dark Lord would-bes!'

'I fear he is not just your ward,' Dumbledore said. 'I very much fear what else he may be. And that is what we must confirm, Lord Potter. With all haste.'

'What else I might be?' Harry caught at Sirius's hand, squeezing it tight. Sirius refused to back down from his face-off with Dumbledore, but he squeezed Harry's fingers right back.

'We need the diary,' Dumbledore repeated, stubborn or singleminded or intractable or maybe, just maybe, too afraid to speculate til he had proof.

 

 

 

'You're looking for me,' RAB said.

Harry nodded. Sir Nick had done his work well. The Chamber was dark, now, without the complement of Aurors in it with their wands lit and their voices all talking over each other. Hagrid had gone back to the surface, and they were alone, now, alone and a little hungry, in Harry's case, but putting it out of his mind as he worried at all the things he couldn't change. This, though, he could, and wondered if he dared hope he could change it for the better.

'I wondered if you'd come back,' Harry greeted RAB, standing from his seat at the edge of the pool where the waterfall plunged to its end. The rush of the water cast mist in endless quantity, and Harry's skin and clothes were long soaked, his glasses wetted over so he could hardly see but for the minute after he wiped them on whatever patch of dry he could find. He removed them now, and replaced them scrubbed to find RAB hovering beside him, a sputtering glow of white cheeks and dripping long hair.

'I wondered if you would,' RAB whispered. 'Or come back like me.'

'Still alive,' Harry said, mustering a smile for that. 'What have you got there?'

The black book. RAB let him take it. It had writing on it, now, Harry saw, opening it. But the pages were crossed and crossed again and again, written over dozens of times so it was impossible to make out a single whole sentence. It was hard to be sure, but the freshest ink in the opening pages looked familiar. Remus's handwriting.

'What made it change?' Harry wondered.

Cold brushed against his forehead. Harry looked up to find RAB's hand there. Forefinger tracing Harry's scar.

'Reg,' a faint voice behind him said.

It was Sirius. He had come after Harry, past the edge of the torchlight, and now he stood there, face hidden by the dark and eyes wide. He came another step, and another, reaching again for Harry's shoulder, but to cling, this time, to support himself.

'Mr RAB,' Harry said carefully, 'Mr RAB, that's what we needed to tell you. We know who you are.'

'Who I was?'

'Regulus Ark-- Arktor--'

'Arcturus,' Sirius corrected softly. 'Arcturus after our grandfather, Regulus from our great-uncle. They always did that, keeping the blood and the memory alive as long as possible. Not a John, Michael, or Christopher to be found in centuries, inbreeding doesn't do much for creativity, I've always thought. You... Harry says you don't remember anything.'

'It's all beyond the Veil,' RAB said. 'There was a dark place. I was in the dark place for a long time, I think. I was lost. I came here-- I was looking for--' RAB hugged the locket tight to his chest. 'I knew there was something I must do. And I don't know if I did it.'

'You, uh. You fell in with a group of... some people who did bad things.' Sirius's eyes fell from RAB's face to his chest. No; to his arm. The Dark Mark. Harry knew without the words. Old pain and regret and a decade in Azkaban sealed up Sirius's lungs for a long moment, and he struggled, he tried, and all Harry could do was hold on and silently will Sirius the strength to say what he meant to say. RAB seemed to dim as he hovered there, waiting, hoping and afraid at the same time.

'They seduced you into it,' Sirius managed. 'They promised you things you... all the things you wanted the most-- brotherhood and honour and blood.... And when you realised it was all lies you asked for help. You sent me a letter and I was a stupid fuck-up full of myself and righteous anger and I... Remus read it. Remus read the letter, and he told me you'd asked for a meet, he made me swear I'd go. But then you didn't come. Three days later you were dead.' Sirius let out an odd sound halfway between a laugh and breaking glass. 'You were-- you were just a lonely kid looking for a place to belong, but I lumped you in with all of them and didn't know what I'd done til it was too late.' The last word hitched on something perilously close to tears. 'Reg, please forgive me.'

'My brother,' RAB-- Regulus Black-- echoed, sinking toward the floor, inner glow snuffing out like a candlewick pinched between two invisible fingers. Abruptly he vanished, only the clink of something metal on the floor marking his exit. Harry bent to pick it up. The locket.

'God damn it all,' Sirius said roughly. He swiped angrily at his face. 'What's that, then?'

Harry manipulated the latch and plucked out the little roll of paper. 'He thinks he wrote it.'

Sirius scrubbed at his eyes again, clearing his throat. 'Too dark to read it.'

'Lumos.' Harry flinched. The sword miscalculated a bit, brimming over suddenly with enough wattage to light the entire Chamber, not just their immediate area. 'A little less, please,' he asked it hastily, and they plunged back into darkness. Harry sighed.

'Perhaps I might assist,' Dumbledore said, approaching them with a rather subdued air. His 'Lumos' was precisely judged, and a soft blue glow that didn't hurt the eyes so much emitted from the tip of his wand.

Sirius didn't thank him, but took advantage of the light to read, at any rate. 'To the Dark Lord,' Sirius read aloud. 'I know I will be dead long before you read this...' His recital hitched. 'I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match you will be mortal once more.'

And what a death it must have been. Drowned, and the only person who would know who'd drowned Regulus was the murderer, some Death Eater who might or might not ever have been caught or confessed and might never even if Regulus did ever recover his memories. It was too unfair. It was too awful, the amount of pain Tom Riddle had inflicted on the world. Harry's parents. Remus. Draco and Percy. Bill Weasley. Regulus Black, dead these many years but not at rest. And Harry thought then, in a way he really had never thought before, even when he was facing down Quirrell after the murder of the unicorns, that Voldemort did not deserve to live after all the horrible things he'd inflicted on the world. And Harry thought, too, that Draco was wrong. Harry would kill Voldemort for that. He would. One day.

'What's it mean?' Sirius was asking Dumbledore. 'What's this mean, stolen a Horcrux? Some kind of Dark artefact?'

'One of the Darkest,' Dumbledore replied. 'And, I very much fear to think, not a singular artefact, but one of some number we cannot yet know.'

'Some number?'

'Five, at least, I would hazard,' Dumbledore said. 'We have two before us here, and the original of this locket wherever it remains at large, and two others I believe are even now in the possession of its maker-- or some form of him, at least. There may well be more.'

'So what are they? What is it, a Horcrux? Harry?'

'Yes, Harry,' Dumbledore said, very heavily indeed. He touched Harry's cheek, just by his eye, where the scar now ended. 'Let us leave the Chamber to its ancient rest. I think we have much to discuss, and may be better off in more comforting surroundings.'

 

 

 

When Harry had learnt he was a wizard, Remus had told him a great many things Harry had not then comprehended. There are two kinds of wizards, Remus had said, and two kinds of magic used by those wizards, and it was none so simple as good versus evil, as some Dark wizards committed good deeds and some Light wizards very bad deeds. Light, Remus said, at the bones of it Light magic was for bringing life, and Dark magic for exploring death and things beyond the Veil.

Dumbledore was talking now about the Dark. The Dark, he said, was entropy-- chaos-- lawlessness. To follow the Dark was to pursue one's own desires above all else, to crave knowledge for the power it could grant, not to raise others up by it; to follow the Dark was to push body and soul beyond the boundaries of nature, to violate and destroy. Lord Voldemort, and Tom Riddle the boy who had become Lord Voldemort, had ventured so far into the Dark he could no longer pull himself back, and had been corrupted, had chosen corruption. It was the choice that was important, it was the choice that could not be undone, and it was the choice that compelled every action Tom had taken on the road to becoming a Lord of the Dark.

One of those choices had been to create Horcruxes, Dark artefacts that were the means of achieving immortality. A wizard could extend his life indefinitely by splitting his soul and concealing a fragment of it separately from his mortal form. So long as any piece of his soul remained, that wizard could not be destroyed. A horcrux ensured that even if his mortal form should perish, it would be possible to resurrect the remnant of soul into a living being.

Harry puzzled through that. 'Like by possessing someone. Or telling someone how to bring you back through a diary.'

'Yes,' Dumbledore agreed soberly. 'Just so, Harry. But this is what we must know for certain, for I fear it is precisely the situation we face: how many horcruxes is it possible to make? And, even more vital: can each soul-fragment reform into a whole being?'

'So the black book was alive somehow,' Harry guessed. 'That really was Tom Riddle inside it, not just a trick or a spell to make it seem like it's talking to you.'

'Unfortunately not,' Dumbledore demurred. 'Though such spells are complex and capable of replicating human speech patterns, of responding to stimuli, they are ultimately soulless.'

'So more like... more like the Sorting Hat?'

The Hat even now occupied a place on Dumbledore's desk, only set aside a moment earlier. Dumbledore touched a hand to it. 'That... that is a question with a complex answer.'

'I don't give a rat's traitorous ass about the Sorting Hat,' Sirius interrupted. 'Keep on track, Albus.'

'I cannot fully explain one without the other, dear boy. This is a story with many tracks, I fear, and we must follow all of them before we can find the conclusion.'

Harry quietened his guardian with a look. Sirius sank wearily back into his chair, gnawing at a thumbnail. He turned Regulus's note over and over in his other hand, rubbing the brittle parchment over his knuckles. A house elf had brought brandy for the two men and a hot pumpkin juice for Harry, but Dumbledore and Harry had only sipped before setting aside their drinks in favour of the conversation. Sirius had drained his brandy and another before the elf had not reappeared to refill his cup. Sirius glowered into the middle distance, his eyes red.

'What do you know of the Founders, Harry?'

'Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, Helga Hufflepuff, and, er, the Ravenclaw lady--'

'Rowena. Yes. Do you know anything of them?'

Harry thought of the visions he'd seen in the crystal caves. 'I know they built the school to protect people with magic,' he said. 'To protect magic from people.'

Dumbledore's chin hesitated at the apex of his nod, before coming down slowly. He nearly spoke, then seemingly reconsidered. He stroked his beard, twisting the tip about his finger as he thought what looked to be very deep thoughts.

At last, he said, 'I recall that during the events of last Easter our dear friend Nicolas Flamel explained something about the workings of a Pensieve to you.'

'Pensieves? Yes, sir.'

'Did he tell you anything of this particular Pensieve?'

'Your Pensieve, Professor?' Harry glanced over his shoulder. Yes, it was still in its spot along the wall. When it was closed it looked like just a cabinet, but at the moment it was open, to reveal the stone basin and the shelves racked with small stoppered bottles full of memories.

'It is not properly "my" Pensieve,' Dumbledore explained, and Harry turned back to him, wondering at the odd formality that took over his tone. 'There are a number of artefacts that survived from the Founders, and this Pensieve and its many memories are the inheritance of every Headmaster of this school. It is the final act of every Headmaster of this school to commit his or her memories-- their secrets, their scholarship, their surety that magic must and will continue to flourish here, if no-where else. It is also the remit of a Hogwarts Headmaster to bear these secrets alone, to carry the weight of this history forward to new generations without revealing what we alone know to be the truth of the past.'

'But why not share it?'

'It would not change the paths of most witches and wizards. It would not affect their daily decisions, their families, their careers, their politics. For those small number who would find themselves changed by the knowledge, there is still the question of choice. Choice, Harry, is what determines everything in magic. I think you have already made your choice, but I would ask you once again: are you ready, Harry?'

He had, Harry supposed, a little more idea what he was agreeing to now. But his answer was the same. 'I'm ready,' he said.

Sirius had turned his gaze toward his godson. His brows were tightly drawn in a frown, but it was not anger, now, nor even grief. 'How the hell does this help anything?' he demanded, but there was no fire behind it. He was troubled, and he was uncertain, but even as Harry looked at him the uncertainty was fading into determination. He sat forward, his dark hair flopping over to hide his eyes. Regulus's last living words folded over and over in his fingers, before he clasped it tight between both hands and then tucked it away inside his shirt.

'I'm with you,' Sirius said, low but firm. He reached across their chairs and took Harry's hand in his. 'Wherever it takes us.'

Harry managed a smile. 'Thanks, Sirius.'

'Then we must return to the Chamber of Secrets,' Dumbledore murmured, rising, and taking the Sorting Hat with him.

'We were just there, though.'

Dumbledore patted the side of his crooked nose with one finger. 'Not the physical Chamber, dear boy. Until you led our sojourn there, I never knew its location, nor even knew with certainty it still existed. But the Chamber is where this story begins, and it is from there we must choose our track forward. We will need to venture into the Pensieve to start.'

'Er, one question?'

'Yes, Harry?'

'How do we all fit in the Pensieve?'

 

 

 

Crowded conditions aside, being in a Pensieve was much as Harry remembered it.

When he had gone into his own memories with Nicolas Flamel, he had noted and wondered at the strange immersive effect of the Pensieve. It didn't just let you view your memories like watching a video tape of events, it let you relive them-- and in even greater depth than you'd lived them the first time, for you weren't bound by what your own eyes and ears experienced. You could even touch things and move them-- remove them from the Pensieve even, if you were Harry Potter and had a Diamond Soul to help you break all the rules. But Harry wasn't chasing a stolen Philosopher's Stone this time, only whatever it was Dumbledore meant for him to learn. So Harry stood with his hands in his pockets, Sirius at one shoulder and the Headmaster of Hogwarts at the other, and watched the first memory unfold.

They stood, as promised, in the Chamber of Secrets, but it was subtly different from what Harry had seen of it. There were the standing stones, like columns for a top-less rotunda, and there far above was the painted ceiling with all the constellations. There was the waterfall from the path of the crystal caves, still spilling in a thunderous rush of water that layered everything with a fine mist and made the air damp and musty-smelling. But the Chamber was serenely empty in this memory, a scene of quiet contemplation, lonely and yet strangely welcoming in its cavernous solitude.

Til it became the scene of a battle, anyway.

Harry hadn't been there to see this part, before. Harry recalled Sirius had told them they'd got in another way than RAB's passage through the caves, and they were arriving now in the memory, hostage at wandpoint between the two former Death Eaters and Lockhart their stooge. Scrimgeour passed a signal of some sort, and the Aurors erupted into action, Sirius with them, and then the fighting was in earnest, ranging out across the Chamber's floor. It went on for some time, perhaps a quarter of an hour, before Harry spotted something else happening. His own arrival, appearing at the cave mouth atop the waterfall.

'This much we know,' Dumbledore said. 'I will reset the time, to move us forward a matter of some minutes.'

'Wait,' Sirius stopped him, a raised hand interrupting even as he left their stance at the standing stones and crossed through the battle toward the place where Pettigrew, Remus, and Draco stood over the big cauldron full of bubbling black Tom Riddle juice. Sirius glowered at Pettigrew as he passed the unseeing memory of the man who was occupied in manipulating the Death Eaters through the Dark Mark, but it was Remus he stopped to stare at.

'What's the collar?' Sirius asked, reaching out to examine it. Remus, or the memory of Remus, stood before him unseeing. Remus did nothing as the battle raged about him, dull-eyed as he waited. He toyed with a necklace at his throat, worrying the chain about his neck unceasingly so that the skin was red and welted. But it was the stone in the chain that Sirius bent to look at. 'It's magical,' Sirius said. 'It's Dark.'

'It is used for a Dark purpose,' Dumbledore clarified. 'It is a Moonflower Opal. Rare, outside the Eastern mageries, and usually only required for esoteric magicks. If I must speculate, and at this time I can only speculate, I would guess that Quirinus Quirrell encountered its owner on his travels and took it by trickery or by force, in service of his master.'

'And Wormtail made contact with Quirrell at some point,' Sirius concluded grimly. 'Knew where he kept his secrets, and saved a few when Quirrell died with his ambitions unfulfilled. How lucky for Peter he had a second chance so near at hand.' He could not touch the memory of Remus, but his fingers lingered near Remus's cheek, ache in his eyes. 'What's it doing to him?'

'The Moonflower Opal captures lunar rays. Given that the werewolf curse is responsive to the call of the moon, Mr Pettigrew, on his own or at Tom's direction, must have realised that the Opal could be used to incite the lycanthropic transformation indepedent of the cycle of the real moon.'

'How could Peter do this? He knows how deeply Remus loathes it. It's torture. Even for the rat, this is a horror.'

'Tom said he'd tamed Remus,' Harry said. 'Tamed the werewolf. And Remus obeyed him even when he was... like that.'

'We cannot know to what extent Tom's claims are true. We have only the evidence of our eyes. I have examined every memory of the events of the Chamber, and I believe we must account Remus Lupin lost to us.'

'Damn you,' Sirius said, his voice tight and hopeless.

'I would with all my heart it were otherwise.'

'Draco and Percy said he tried to help the boys at Crowhill escape,' Harry protested. 'They said--'

'He may yet be the man we know him to be. But he cannot control when he will be that man. And when he is the wolf, he is Tom's.'

'I don't believe you,' Harry said, and Dumbledore looked down on him full of sorrow. 'I don't. I won't.'

'Harry.'

'What are the Horcruxes, then? You said there were lots. The diary and the locket and what else?'

'Play forward,' Dumbledore instructed the Pensieve, and everything jolted into jerky skipping motion, bodies blurring as they hopped about the Chamber. 'Stop,' Dumbledore said a minute later, and everything slowed again, mid-shout.

 _'--join a real wizard, eh?'_ the memory of Tom Riddle was smirking. _'I want so much more than to preserve a sickly state and its weak ruling class. And who's to stand against me? The field looks clear from where I stand, and everyone loves a winner.'_

_'Stop it,' Harry said. He levelled his sword again with sore muscles and pointed it at Tom's vulnerable neck. 'Stop being such a smug prat and sneering at everything. What are you going to do?'_

_'Yes, Tom,' Dumbledore agreed quietly, 'what are you going to do now you have achieved your return?'_

_'Threats from a child with a pointy stick frighten no-one, Potter.' Tom snapped his fingers, and Harry felt a strange tug at his backside. Too late, he figured out what was happening, but his grab was too slow. His wand sprang free of his back pocket as if fired by a gun, zipping through the air to Tom's outstretched hand. 'Ahh, now that's more like it,' Tom purred, petting the wand with such an evil leer at Harry that Harry made an attempt to snatch it back, only to find it pointed at his heart. 'Moony tells me this was your dear mummy's wand,' Tom said. 'But it's got more of me than you. It calls to me. Like a beacon on a dark night.' He stroked the wood, thumb finding the little groove rest, and paused there. 'You've ruined it somehow. It's... it's twisted. Changed.'_

_'Transmuted,' Dumbledore corrected him. 'What do you intend to do?'_

'Stop playback,' Dumbledore said. He folded his hands into his long sleeves. 'Do you understand, Harry?'

'The wand. My mum's wand.'

'The wand. Yes. But do you understand?' Dumbledore's blue eyes searched Harry's. 'The night of your parents' murders. The Dark Lord stole past the Fidelius Charm into your parents' house in Godric's Hollow with the sole aim of committing murder. Your murder.'

'My murder,' Harry repeated.

'In the act of casting the Killing Curse upon you he meant to create a Horcrux. The means by which a Horcrux is made require the Darkest of arts,' Dumbledore answered gravely. 'The only means to split a soul is to inflict death. To murder.'

'Like summoning a basilisk to kill a girl in the loo,' Harry said, the connection clicking in his mind. He wrapped his hand about the pommel of the sword at his shoulder, wondering if it was only his imagination that it it pulsed like a living thing, or if it was his own pulse suddenly thundering through his veins. 'Tom Riddle's diary.'

'His first Horcrux, so I believe. Not his last. No wizard has ever been known to split his soul more than once. Thankfully, Tom did not think to seal a piece of his soul in the basilisk, if indeed it could be done, but some years later he did venture to create a Horcux with an object that is not precisely inanimate. All wandmakers will tell you that a wand is, to some extent, a living thing. It is made with wood taken from living trees and the essence of a living creature. I believe, as well, that the symbolism of infusing a wand with a man's soul appealed to Tom, but it would have been the power of such a creation that encouraged him. I have come to believe that on the night he invaded your parents' homes and committed three murders, he meant to create the ultimate Horcrux. He would have split his soul with your deaths and bound the pieces to his own wand.'

'But that didn't happen, is what you're saying,' Sirius said, circling Tom Riddle's frozen form and staring down at the wand in his hand. Lily Potter's wand. 'This,' he said, looking up for confirmation.

Dumbledore nodded. 'I cannot know for certain. But I do believe it. However it went awry, it did. There were three murders that night. But it was the attempted murder of Harry that created three Horcruxes. What I believe is this: at the instant the Killing Curse rebounded unto Lord Voldemort, it shattered a soul already weakened by his previous attempts to split it. Picture the soul as a lattice, connected at each vital point to the body, the heart, the nerves, the blood, the magical core. When any part of that lattice is damaged, the whole may be shattered by any blow of sufficient strength. Lord Voldemort shattered his soul, and those broken remnants attached themselves to any living thing within reach. Lily's wand. His own wand.' Dumbledore pointed first to Wormtail, frozen in place with a wretched grimace as he jabbed at the Dark Mark on his arm, and then pointed at the wand that controlled the Mark. And then he turned his sad and weary gaze back to Harry. 'But, most unexpectedly, some piece of that shattered soul attached itself to the infant boy he had not known was protected by blood wards, the last act of a mother's desperate attempt to save her son.'

Harry closed his eyes. 'My scar.'

'Even so.'

'And he cast the Killing Curse again, here in the Chamber. And I didn't die.'

'Even so,' Dumbledore confirmed on a breath. 'Tom could not know what his elder self had done, though he sensed something amiss. He knew the wand was changed. And the ghost of Regulus Black knows the same thing about you, Harry, and the diary is the final proof. All these Horcruxes were changed from what Voldemort had made of them years ago.'

_'Moony tells me this was your dear mummy's wand,' Tom said. 'But it's got more of me than you. It calls to me. Like a beacon on a dark night.' He stroked the wood, thumb finding the little groove rest, and paused there. 'You've ruined it somehow. It's... it's twisted. Changed.'_

_'Transmuted,' Dumbledore corrected him._

'I didn't do anything,' Harry protested weakly, even as the words penetrated him like lightning, flashing along his limbs and leaving him numb, numb even into the depths of his gut. Yes. He did understand.

'But you did. All unknowing, to be sure, but your very nature did it, Harry, mere exposure to you. The wand. The diary. And the Horcrux in your scar, Harry, you weakened it so very much that when Tom Riddle cast the Killing Curse here in this Chamber it destroyed the remnant, not you. You, and your Diamond Soul.'

'I don't care about this Diamond Soul business!' Harry shouted, and Dumbledore flinched from him. 'I don't care about Horcruxes or wands or any of it, I just want to know what to do!'

'I'm with Harry on this.' Sirius came to his side, arms crossed belligerently. 'What do we do, Albus? Or should I say what do _you_ think we should do, and then what are we actually going to do.'

'I'm ready,' Harry told his Headmaster flatly. 'I'm ready, and I'll do whatever I have to do. I'll do my utmost. This time.'

Dumbledore bowed his head. Not humbled, nor defeated, but perhaps looking within himself for the answer. For the echo of Harry's assertion. Was Dumbledore truly ready? He'd formed and kept the Order of the Phoenix against the rise of a Dark Lord, any Dark Lord, and had defeated two already, but there were more out there, and if there were who knew how many Horcruxes there could be that many more Dark Lords looking for ways to resurrect themselves to flesh, and once they had flesh they'd be looking to do what Dark Lords did.

Harry said, 'I'm choosing, sir. I'm ready, and I'm choosing.'

'Then we may yet prevail,' Dumbledore whispered, and raised his head clear-eyed. He said, 'However long it takes, whatever it asks of us, we must destroy the Horcruxes. It is the only way.'

 

 

 

It was dark in Dumbledore's office when they emerged from the Pensieve. Harry removed his glasses to rub at his eyes, which felt tired and strained. His whole body felt that way, from head to toe, and he longed for nothing so much as a good rest. But that would be a long time yet, for there was still the journey home and--

And Severus Snape, standing there with his black robes a little bedraggled and an uncertain set to his shoulders.

Tonks tripped on the rug. Something glass fell off the shelf she hit and shattered. 'Oh,' she said, distressed, but Snape had his wand out and repared it immediately. 'Oh,' she said again, and blushed. 'Er, sorry. I meant to say-- look who I found at the gates.'

'I thought to collect my things,' Snape said stiffly, holstering his wand without his usual grace, as he no longer had the arm on which he'd used to holster it, and now had to use an unaccustomed loop in his belt. 'I thought it best to request your permission, Headmaster, before I did so.'

'You have no need of my permission, but I hope you will not go,' Dumbledore replied, mustering a smile. 'You are as welcome here as ever you were, Severus.'

'Told you,' Tonks stage-whispered, giving Snape a nudge with her elbow. Snape 'oof'ed softly, and then they were both standing there red-cheeked and shuffling in place.

Sirius put a hand on Harry's shoulder. 'Let's go,' he told Harry shortly. 'You need to eat, and I need a stiff drink.'

Snape cleared his throat. 'Potter,' he said. 'Harry. I am-- glad-- to see you well.'

'Yes, sir,' Harry answered. 'Thank you. I'm-- glad-- to see you back here. Where you belong.'

'Thank you,' Snape repeated, subdued.

'Come on.' Sirius tugged him toward the Floo.

'Hold up.' Harry wet his lips, and turned back. 'Sir?' he asked Snape. 'Only-- do you think we'll have time for the extra Potions lessons next term? I, uh... I don't reckon I've much hope of muddling through without them.'

'You most certainly do not,' Snape replied, with much of his old asperity. He couldn't quite maintain it, but it heartened Harry to hear it.

'Good,' he said, and looked past Snape to Dumbledore, who stood still at the Pensieve with the Sorting Hat perched on his head. He said, 'Reckon I'll need all the help I can get, don't you, sir?'

Dumbledore inclined his head slowly. 'Yes, Harry, very wisely said.'

'Come on,' Sirius told him, and this time Harry followed.


	23. The Guardians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which Oaths Are Sworn And Promises Kept._

'Hiyas, Fawkes,' Harry greeted the phoenix perched on the headboard of the bed. He set his trunk on the floor with a clunk, and sat on the bed to give Fawkes a well-deserved cosset. 'You're looking exceptionally pleased with yourself,' he observed.

'Prrrrrr,' Fawkes agreed, fluffing his feathers and craning his delicate neck to guide Harry's fingers to the right spot. Harry obliged with a gentle scratch-- at least til he noticed the dead mouse waiting on his pillow. He lifted it by the tail, scrunching his nose. Fawkes chirped encouragingly.

'For me? Er, thanks, I'll... just save that for later, shall I.' Harry gingerly set the mouse aside on the bedside table. 'I reckon I'll have enough to eat at the feast, though.'

Fawkes sighed at this. With something rather like a shrug, he returned to preening his feathers, and left Harry to the business of unpacking.

Harry was changing into his robe when he heard the sound of dozens of chattering voices coming into the common room below. He made an attempt at his tie, but couldn't get the thin length to hang shorter than the fat one, and fussed at it with unusual nerves til the pounding footsteps going up the stairs stopped at the door of his dorm, and fell silent.

His dorm mates shuffled in one by one, Seamus and Dean heading to their beds with sidelong stares that lingered on the sword, currently hanging from the chair at Harry's desk. They greeted Harry in mumbles and grunts, pretending to be concentrated completely on the difficult task of unloading their bags into their shared wardrobe. Neville, who'd come in after them, was doing the same, but when he threw back the lid of his trunk, he drew a wand from his pocket and swished it carefully. A moment later, his clothes began to zip through the air toward his wardrobe, stacking themselves on the shelves one after the other.

'Neville!' Dean gaped. 'How'd you do that? I mean-- well, how'd _you_ do that?'

Neville beamed at them. 'New wand,' he said proudly, showing it off as they crowded round to see. 'Apple wood, eleven inches, with a dittany core.'

'Dittany?' Seamus stopped himself grabbing at the wand. 'That's weird.'

'Rare,' Neville corrected diplomatically. 'Professor Snape said it's--'

'What-- Snape?'

'Yeah,' Neville said, as if it were no big deal, but his eyes slid over to Harry. 'It was a gift. Christmas gift. Apple is for wizards with high ideals, he says, and dittany is for healing. He said a wizard's wand should be a match for its owner.' He recited the words from memory with shy pride.

Harry found himself smiling. 'Then it's the perfect wand for you,' he said, and Neville grinned at him. 'It's pretty, too.'

'Wizards don't have _pretty_ wands,' Dean objected. 'Handsome and virile.'

They were all still laughing when the door opened again. It was Ron. Ron came in shouldering a much-patched duffel on string, slinging it at his bed and throwing himself onto the duvet with a bounce, propping his shoes on a canopy post. 'Looked for you on the train,' he said, not quite in Harry's direction.

'Sirius brought me straight in,' Harry answered, ducking his own head. Fawkes had vanished at some point, he realised, though the dead mouse was still there. 'Security measures.'

'Right,' Ron said. 'Figured. Hermione was worried. Said you never wrote her back.'

'I didn't know she sent me anything.' Harry pondered that as he fidgeted with his tie. 'The post office box,' he said, resigned to yet another problem. 'It's still taking all my post.'

'I told her. You know girls. Everything's a disaster til they see it for themselves.'

'That might just be mums,' Harry replied, thinking sadly of Mrs Weasley and everything she must have been worried about of late, between Bill and Percy and the Order of the Phoenix. He couldn't blame her being wary of disaster. It was certainly a strong possibility. 'Ron, could we maybe talk before we go down to dinner?'

Ron screwed his mouth to the side, but he acceeded without protest. He pulled a wrinkled robe from his duffel and slung it over his shoulder, and followed Harry to the loos with just a slightly dragging step. Harry was no less reluctant. He caught a brief glimpse of his expression in the mirrors above the sinks, and tried to pull it to something less braced.

'Look, I'm sorry,' Ron said, just as Harry drew a breath to say the same.

So Harry let it out slowly through his nose, the way Remus had always told him to do when he was too angry to speak just yet. 'Sorry for what?'

Ron scowled. 'For what I said at Bill's funeral,' he muttered sullenly, propping himself up against a cubicle door with arms crossed defencively over his chest. His eyes eluded Harry's. 'I was upset and I didn't mean it.'

'You did,' Harry pointed out, not meanly, but Ron flinched, and his shoulders hunched in even tighter.

'All right, I meant it, but I'm sorry now.'

'Don't be,' Harry said, and must've got it right this time, because Ron finally looked him in the face. 'You were right. About all of it. It wasn't just that I didn't think to wait on the Knights coming along to find Tom Riddle. I knew if I waited for anything it would only put more people in danger. I was... I was glad when it was just me going down there to face him. Dumbledore kept telling me to do my utmost, but... but my utmost isn't as good as what we could've all done together. _I'm_ sorry.'

'Yeah, well...' Ron didn't know what to do with that. Despite all those older brothers and a mum who'd trained him up well to apologise when he was in the wrong, he didn't have much practise at being apologised to, and it was a moment of dithering before he recovered himself to nod uneasy acceptance of Harry's words. 'Okay,' he said. 'Then... okay.'

'Yeah.' Harry dithered himself a moment, shuffling on the tile. 'So... all right, then?'

'All right,' Ron agreed, and he seemed to mean it, and a knot in Harry's gut loosened a little bit in relief. 'You will still have to deal with Hermione, though,' Ron warned him, and came across the loo to run a faucet and wash his face. 'She's all kinds of nerves, that one.'

'Girls, eh, ' Harry said, and Ron nodded sagely.

Ron was right about that, as well, as it happened. It wasn't just Hermione who was waiting on pins and needles to accost him with demands for the truth of everything she'd been reading in the papers-- though Hermione was the only one who'd brought a trapper keeper full of clippings from every Wizarding paper that had printed so much as a byline about Harry and the Chamber of Secrets. Harry's appearance in the Gryffindor common room was greeted with a moment of dead silence, as they all verified for themselves he was the Boy Who'd Lived Again. And then it was chaos.

'Harry!'

'Harry, we heard you fought an army of Death Eaters--'

'I heard you were the Prince of Slytherin but I told my brother you couldn't be--'

'I heard the Chamber of Secrets is full of treasure and guarded by dragons--'

'Oh my goodness, Harry, your scar! Look at his scar--'

'I heard you were dead and the Ministry was going to donate your body to the Department of Mysteries--'

'I heard the Prince of Slytherin was Merlin, not Harry--'

'I heard it was You Know Who--'

'I heard he was _possessed_ by You Know Who--'

'Harry, is it true--'

'Harry, what's that whopping great sword?'

'Silence!'

McGonagall didn't raise her voice often, and it was dire straights when she did. Every Gryffindor who valued their hide fell into chastened quiet immediately.

'That's better,' McGonagall said smartly. 'Now. Let us proceed in a calm and orderly fashion to the Great Hall like Hogwarts students, not a herd of hippogriffs. Prefects, lead the way, please.'

Harry peered about Ron's shoulder to see Percy pushing through the edge of the crowd. Oliver Wood was dogging his steps and claimed the spot just beside him, a belligerent set to his jaw that promised violent resistance should anyone try to separate them. No-one took him up on it. If Percy's cheeks were slightly reddened, he had an unusually obedient crowd of students falling into queue as he escorted them through the portrait and down the stairs.

'Oh, Harry,' Hermione sighed, but she contented herself to wrapping her hand tight about his arm and keeping at his side, hauling her newspaper clippings along in the other. Ron took his other side, falling naturally into place, and Neville was beside him, an honour guard that made Harry feel he might survive school starting up again after all.

The presence of Aurors in the Great Hall was sufficient to cow the rest of the student body who had not yet seen Harry for themselves, or who had opinions that wanted voicing when they espied Dumbledore awaiting their entrance from his podium at the head of the Hall, or who wanted to point out the swathes of black cloth that had replaced the usual house banners or wreathes of white roses that hung over every school emblem. Sirius was seated at the head table, and nodded to Harry when their eyes connected, though he sat with his head bowed over a wine glass that emptied once, twice, and was on its way to a third by the time all the students had been seated and the House Heads had all completed their duties and come to join their fellow professors. No-one dared to say anything outright when Severus Snape took his accustomed spot, but a rebellious murmur swept through the hall, quick and unhappy. Snape ignored it, smoothing the long skirts of his robe of pale green and sat himself with a straight spine and level shoulders, chin high.

Dumbledore didn't leave the students in suspense for long. He drew his wand, and waved a slow circle above his head. The light of the many sconces died low, nearly snuffed out, til only the light of the hundreds of candles hovering above the student tables gave them enough glow to see by.

'Let us observe a minute of silence,' Dumbledore said, and it was already so quiet that his voice was heard by each and every ear in the Great Hall. 'For the fallen of Hogwarts. Colin Creevey. Argus Filch. Penelope Clearwater. Poppy Pomfrey. William Weasley. And for the fallen who were never properly mourned in their time. Myrtle Warren and Regulus Black. For the fallen of Hogwarts, who have preceeded us beyond the Veil, and await us there for a reunion that will be, one dearly hopes, many years yet in coming, but await us nonetheless.'

Harry couldn't swallow past the lump in his throat. He looked at his dearest friends, Ron who was pale and red-eyed, George who wrapped an arm about Ginny's small shoulders and Fred who put his hand on Ron's knee; Hermione who smiled tremulously at him, Neville who was counting two more victims in his heart, his parents who would never leave Saint Mungo's, who looked at Harry in silent acknowledgement that Harry, too, was counting his parents, dead at Voldemort's hand. Cedric was already looking at him when Harry searched the Hufflepuff table and found him. Draco wasn't looking, but seemed to sense Harry's eyes on him, for his head turned up, and so did the corners of his mouth, something not quite a smile, sympathy and sadness of his own and something steel in it as well, something hard. Yes. Harry knew exactly how that felt.

'I will not pretend we can be the same now,' Dumbledore said, when the silence had stretched to the breaking point. 'It would be dishonest and dishonourable to the memory of those we have lost. Let us rather, then, promise that we will be the best that we can be, that their sacrifice will not be in vain. You will find Hogwarts will change from what you have known. Precautions we have resisted in the past as excessive and inappropriate can no longer be so dismissed. To wit: Defence Against the Dark Arts will be expanded to include mandatory participation in Duelling, to be taught jointly by two new additions to our staff, Auror Savage and Lord Potter. You will find Aurors on the premises at all times, as there have not been since the final days of the war. In addition to those doughty warriors, you will have noticed coming in that new security measures have been established, including checkpoints guarded by Dementors--' Dumbledore's voice rose slightly to cover the tide of dismay that occasioned. The fresh memory of the siege of Hogwarts last Easter had not yet had time to fade, though few had personally encountered the Dementors who had guarded the school-- it had been, however, the Dementors who had fed on the misery the murder of a dozen unicorns had inflicted on the school, and the Dementors who had blockaded their prey behind the stone walls, unable to go for help til Quirrell had already done his worst. Harry was extremely dubious on the issue of Dementors, but that had not been a choice in his power to make. It was Scrimgeour's, and Scrimgeour was taking no chances.

Nor, it seemed, was Cornelius Fudge. The Minister for Magic had been about his work with renewed vigour since Dumbledore had been pushed out of the Wizengamot, and had at last found an angle on which he could chase Dumbledore even into the last stronghold. 'And,' Dumbledore was saying heavily, 'I must inform you of a new Education Edict which will, I fear, greatly affect some portion of our family who may find they cannot continue to attend our institution. To those so affected I make myself available for private and strictly confidential discussion at any time you desire.' Dumbledore needed a moment to work up to it, it seemed. His hands rested on the podium, his wand in the left and the right gripping tight to the wooden scrollwork. 'By edict of the Ministry, no Wizarding school may knowingly provide succor or sanctuary to any who bear the Dark Mark or its ilk. The ancient wards of our grounds will be restructured to prevent entry to any associated with the wizard known as Lord Voldemort and his allies.'

Gasps and shock erupted from the student body. Not a few twisted in their seats to stare at the Slytherin table, and loud whispers from those too gauche or too naive to hide their suspicions gathered in a hiss that was not so easily quietened as grief. The Slytherins made a pale group, too many tainted by that association, and Harry thought grimly there might indeed be some who disappeared from that table before long-- too many of those names Ron had always been at pains to tell Harry he should be wary of, too many who had chosen the wrong side in the war and who might even now have ties too Dark to shed under a spotlight. Draco weathered the announcement without surprise, which told Harry the Malfoys had known and prepared their son-- or Draco had snooped, as good Slytherins did-- and Harry noted, too, there was a lack of surprise amongst several of Draco's circle, and so they sat serene and scrupuously innocent in the face of their peers' blatant stares. But it wasn't just the Slytherins receiving that bad news. There were several Ravenclaws who looked distinctly uneasy, and even some Hufflepuffs, and, Harry was sure, a Gryffindor or two. The war had touched too many. The war that was coming might touch more.

'Snape's out, that's a silver lining,' someone near Harry muttered, with a glee that might relate more to poor Potions marks or might have more to do with Snape's infamous temperament and the dozens of points certain Gryffindors had lost over the years in his class.

Whichever it was, Harry was having none of it. 'Look again,' he said shortly, just loud enough to carry, and the whispers in his immediate vicinity ceased abruptly. 'Snape hasn't got a Dark Mark, or he wouldn't be here now.'

The inescapable logic of that took a moment to sink in. 'But he was a Death Eater,' Seamus ventured uneasily. 'The _Prophet_ said so.'

'Wouldn't be the first time the _Prophet_ got it wrong,' Oliver retorted sharpish, and that was that.

'There are further changes to our staff roster in light of recent events,' Dumbledore said then, and all talk across the Hall ceased. 'We welcome to our number Professor Charles Weasley, who will take on Care of Magical Creatures, to replace Professor Lupin, who will not return for the second term of this year.' Harry felt Hermione's palm on his back, soothing or seeking, perhaps, his reaction, but he gave none, and Dumbledore did not pause to allow the students any time to speculate. 'Charms will be taught by Dolores Umbridge, but private tutoring will be available to any who wish to pursue additional study with Mister Filius Flitwick, who will remain on premises to make himself available particularly to students preparing for OWLs and NEWTs, but also for any students who have reason to seek his expertise.'

Hermione touched Harry again, this time a tug at his robe that was relief and excitement. Harry nodded. He, too, was pleased. Charms had always been his best subject, due in no small part to the fact that Flitwick was an excellent teacher, but there were other reasons to keep contact with Flitwick now he was no longer a professor-- the same reason Duelling had been made mandatory. Harry made a mental note to approach Flitwick at the earliest opportunity. Or at least to follow up with Hermione, who was surely setting the same task for herself.

'Hem-hem,' someone interrupted, just as Dumbledore was about to make his next announcement.

There was no wondering for long. A woman was standing from the head table, and when Dumbledore didn't immediately yield the floor to her, she repeated herself. 'Hem- _hem_ ,' she said, or sort of half-coughed half vocalised, at volume, to be sure she was heard. Dumbledore's hands on the podium went tight again.

'Ms Umbridge,' the Headmaster said, distant but polite, 'remarks are not customary. You will have an opportunity to introduce yourself to your students at your classes.'

'I am sure Minister Fudge would prefer me to pass on his words of comfort to the students now,' the woman said in a voice like Hagrid's tea-- several spoonfuls of sugar not quite concealing bitter undertones.

'When I have quite finished,' Dumbledore answered, and that tone was one few had ever heard from him before. Umbridge must have been as dim as she looked, however. She didn't quail.

'And are you not?' she asked sweetly. 'Quite finished, _Headmaster_?'

Heads were craning to get a better look at this exceptional confrontation. Dolores Umbridge was a squat witch whose black robe was accented with a crochet shawl of pastel pink, tied under a row of chubby chins with a large satin bow. It matched the bow in her pink frosted hair, swept up in elaborate curls. She had, Harry thought, mean eyes. He did not like her.

'Headmaster,' Dumbledore replied coldly. 'Headmaster of this school, yes. Please resume your seat, Ms Umbridge.'

It might have gone farther. For a strange moment, Harry thought it would, and he found himself reaching to his shoulder to touch the pommel of the sword. It was thrumming, just a little. Or maybe he was. It felt like a fight in the offing.

But it wasn't. With a saccharine smile, Umbridge sat.

'That's trouble,' Ron said, sotto voce.

'Yeah,' Harry agreed.

'To continue,' Dumbledore resumed his speech, 'we have other changes to our staff roster of which to make you aware. Flight will no longer be offered as a standard course, but will be made available as an elective through private tutoring with Madam Rolanda Hooch. Divination will no longer be offered at all. For those who were pursuing Divination through OWLs, private tutoring will be made available. And, finally, our long-time professor Cuthbert Binns has at last retired from teaching to consult with the Goblin Liaison Office. Here forward, History of Magic will be taught by Professor Elphias Doge. New schedules will be distributed with all necessary information and upper year students will have an opportunity to re-select electives if they should so choose.

'Hogwarts is changing,' Dumbledore said then. 'Hogwarts will change. Perhaps it ought to have changed long ago. I can only offer my word that so long as I am Headmaster of this school, I will not undertake change without due consideration-- but neither will I stand blind to the need to change. Ours is a dangerous time, and I would not lose any more of you, my precious children.' His mouth stood open, for a moment, then, but no sound emerged. He passed a hand over his eyes. 'Not one more,' he finished quietly, and with that he left the podium, left the Hall, and left all in silence behind him.

 

 

**

 

 

Charlus Wasleigh did his work well. Harry had less than a half an hour of uneasy pacing before the first head came poking up the ladder into the loft.

'Hi, Hermione,' Harry said, wincing at the nervous uptick that turned that rather more into a question than a statement of intent.

Hermione climbed up with the aid of his hand, then stood red-cheeked and dithering to an unusual extent. At last, decision made, she hugged him. Harry sighed his relief into her hair. She smelled nice. He'd missed that.

She swatted his arm as she stepped back. 'I don't know whether to be glad you weren't murdered or murder you myself, Harry Potter,' she said.

Harry let one of Sirius's crooked grins to his mouth. 'Yeah,' he replied. 'I get that a lot.'

'I have so many questions,' she began, sliding a bag from her shoulder and removing that binder full to bursting with newsclippings. She was spreading pages across the bed before she caught herself with a sudden 'Oh,' and stood back with her hands at her mouth. 'Harry, do you... do you mind?'

Harry touched the edge of the bare mattress. The loft above the stables had nothing left of Remus in it. The bed had been stripped, the books boxed up, the dishes crated away and all the handsome decorations Sirius had put up for him removed. Harry thought it was Tonks who'd done it-- there was a suspicious amount of missing plates in the dish crate and the mug on top had a large chip gone that Harry didn't think had been broken before, all of which summed up to his clumsy friend's attempt at helping. Sirius certainly hadn't done it. Sirius was many things, but cleanly wasn't really one of them, and anyway Sirius had quite enough to be getting on with, dealing with his brother and the Wizengamot and the Order of the Phoenix. Duelling classes. And, if Harry's friends agreed, Latin Revision. They needed a new sponsor, after all.

'It's all right,' he said. 'I think Remus would approve. But let's wait for the others. They'll want to hear it all from the beginning too, I reckon.'

The others arrived in the order, Harry reckoned, that the portrait of Charlus Wasleigh had contacted them. Ron and Neville arrived only a few minutes after Hermione, and then there was a wait before Draco came, and Cedric brought up the rear, arriving in a sweat and puffing from running. 'Sorry,' Cedric said, flinging himself over the ladder and taking a sprawl back on his elbows before the empty hearth. 'Sprout wanted a chat with everyone. Some of the firsties are a little overwhelmed. Not to mention all the other years.'

Harry could sympathise. 'Everyone all right, though?'

'Yeah, all right.' Cedric blew a puff of air that tossed his fair hair off his damp forehead. 'How're you?' he asked solemnly.

Harry picked at the red skin next to his thumbnails. 'All right,' he answered. 'Considering.'

'None of us knows what that means, though,' Hermione ventured. 'Considering what? All we know is what's been in the newspapers, and that's mostly speculation from public statements.'

Harry drew a deep breath for courage. 'Draco?' he asked quietly. 'I won't if you say no.'

Draco went a shade greyer, but that hard look was still in his eyes. 'Tell them,' he said.

'All right,' Harry nodded, and he did.

There was a great deal of ground to cover, in some cases to re-cover-- they had to go back all the way to the night Quirrellmort had murdered the unicorns in the Forbidden Forest and come through the Floo into Hogwarts. The revelation that it was Peter Pettigrew who had opened the Floo came as a shock-- but that shock paled before the one that came next. Narcissa Malfoy had given the diary Wormtail requested to Draco to bring to Hogwarts.

'I didn't know what it was, at first,' Draco said softly, staring down into his hands, palm-up and limp in his lap. 'Just an old diary. I knew better than to write in it, but I thought if it's a secret, it's got to be a really good one. And... I had to tell someone about Wormtail. But that night, that night in Dumbledore's office... he cast the Imperius. And he told me to never tell anyone about him, and it was... it was just pressing on me, this weight on my chest that would never go away and I... I just wanted to tell someone, anyone, so I wrote it in the diary. And Tom answered. He was really kindly at first. He listened to everything. And it was just such a, a--'

'A relief,' Cedric guessed gently.

'A relief,' Draco echoed breathlessly. 'It was. And I didn't even notice at first he was drawing me out. Asking for more and more detail. Detail about you, Harry. I swear I didn't know at first. I didn't know why he'd care what Harry Potter had done to the Dark Lord.'

'I know,' Harry assured him.

And on it went. It got rather chilly in the loft, winter seeping in the cracks in the walls. Hermione blew on her hands and warmed them beneath her armpits til Neville remembered he'd brought mittens, and Cedric wrapped his yellow Hufflepuff scarf double about his neck. Harry hugged his knees to his chest as he talked. He talked so much his voice began to wear out, unaccustomed to so much exercise, but there was listening, too, when Draco told them about Wormtail moving to bring in Remus. Tom had wanted Remus with a passion, Draco said, sure he would be the one who could bring their plot to fruition. They'd already had to put him off once before-- that was a story of its own, requiring them to go back over the question of Gilderoy Lockhart.

Lockhart, Draco said, was a fraud of long standing, but a useful fraud. Quite how Lucius Malfoy had discovered this, Draco didn't know, but it had been the start of his father's scheme to cover up his role in Quirrell's demise. Lockhart had paid handsomely for the story of that fatal confrontation between Harry and the possessed Quirrell, and published a book about it. But that hadn't been the last of Lockhart's usefulness. Draco had used what he knew about Lockhart to blackmail him throughout the first term, and Lockhart had made himself useful on a few occasions when they'd needed more time. It had been Lockhart's talent for Obliviations that kept Remus's suspicions at bay til they were ready for him. Harry looked at the bare table where he'd had that vicious fight with Remus, regretting one more time that he hadn't been cleverer, that he'd seen what was going on and known Remus would never lie to him. But he hadn't, and Tom's plans had rolled onward. Wormtail had attacked Remus in the loft, securing him with the Moonflower Opal and bringing him to the Chamber of Secrets. Harry had interrupted the aftermath, and Lockhart had performed yet another Obliviation, one so good not even Dumbledore could crack it. And so they had lost Remus for good. What had happened to him in the Chamber, how Wormtail had tamed him at Tom Riddle's command, Draco didn't know.

'I have my guesses,' he said. 'Harry, it wasn't his fault. It wasn't.'

'I know,' Harry said. 'It wasn't anyone's fault but Tom and Wormtail.'

Draco rubbed his wrist across his eyes. He nodded, but he didn't look like he believed it.

Ron had part of the tale to tell, as well, picking up the story of Percy falling apart over the Christmas break, confessing everything and throwing the entire Weasley clan into a panic. Then it had turned into an expedition back to the school, and Bill had gone to meet them there, never to come home again. For a time they'd thought they'd lost Percy, too, kidnapped by Tom and subject to who knew what tortures. Percy had told their parents there'd been no hurts, and indeed he hadn't had a mark on him. But he hadn't cried. Percy never had, not really, but it was bloody odd, Ron thought.

'He's stronger than I thought,' Ron said, resting his chin on his crossed arms. He wiped at his nose, smearing it over his sleeve with a sniffle. 'You'd never know it happened at all. He just goes on about classes and exams and things. I don't think he's slept a wink, he's just reading every time you look at him.'

'It'll come out,' Neville said. 'It will. When you least expect it. When he least expects it.'

'S'what Mum says, too. She said she was like that when she lost her brothers. She liked to keep busy. She still does, you ask me. You should see all the stuff she's baked. She's on to knitting, now. The whole family's gonna be smothered in yarn.'

'But all of these security measures,' Hermione interrupted. 'What's behind all that? It's not just that Tom Riddle escaped?'

'No,' Harry said. 'There's more. He... he attacked Crowhill Boys' Home. He destroyed it.'

Despite everything they'd just heard, the naked shock on everyone's faces was too much for Harry. His stomach was desperately unhappy. He picked harder at his nails, picked until he reached blood.

'It was horrible,' Draco whispered. 'It was the most horrible thing I've ever seen.'

Cedric swallowed hard. 'You were there?'

'We were there. Tom was--' Draco's voice died out. 'Tom was like a madman. He laughed the whole time. Remus was weeping. He hit Tom in the face, and Tom-- It was awful. Wormtail kept telling us not to watch. But I hated what Tom did after even more. He'd just stare at Remus, he'd just-- he'd just stare at him like he was hungry and Remus was a feast, laying there screaming, but then when it was over he sat with Remus's head in his lap and he'd pet him like a dog, just petting him and crooning over him and it was like he didn't even see the bodies and the school burning and-- he's not even human. He'd do anything if he wanted to, he's mad. He didn't even care about letting us go. Wormtail told us to run, to hide, but I know Tom saw us go, and he didn't care.'

They sat in silence for a time, none of them able or willing to speak first. Harry closed his eyes for a time, wondering if he'd be able to sleep tonight, that image the last thing in his mind. Fight, Remus, he thought, quiet in the centre of himself. You need to fight.

'We need to fight,' he said, and their heads rose, his friends, his Knights. 'We'll fight. We'll win.'

'How?' Ron shook his head. 'I... it's an awfully big fight, Harry. I know what I said about training, I... you were right. There's no way we can fight that.'

'No,' Harry returned. 'No, you were right. Just-- not yet. We'll keep training. We'll work hard. Harder than ever. And when we face him again it won't be an accident, or a surprise. We'll be ready. Because we know the worst he can do. We know what he is.' He filled his lungs with cold air, and let it out again. 'Not one more,' he said. 'Dumbledore's right. Not one more.'

'Not one more,' Hermione repeated. She nodded. 'Not one more.'

'Not one more,' said Cedric.

'Not one more,' Neville echoed.

'Ron?' Harry asked.

'You know I'm with you.' Ron wiped his nose again, then drew his wand from his sleeve and extended it. 'Not one more.'

Draco was the first to draw his wand and touch the point to Ron's. 'Not one more,' he said, soft and fierce.

They each drew their wands-- their swords, in Harry's case. They touched the points together.

'So mote it be,' Harry said, and looked into their faces, each of them, and knew it was true.

 

 

**

 

 

The craze following Harry's reappearance at school was slow to die down, much aided by Rita Skeeter and the _Prophet._ Skeeter seemed to have decided the embargo on writing about Harry was over, since Harry had tipped her his opinion on the trial for Snape, Malfoy, and Lockhart. She secured a few photographs of Harry with his sword, hypothesising wildly on its origins and coming near enough to the right answer, though she didn't and wouldn't be getting the story of how Godric Gryffindor's sword had come to Harry. Dumbledore was in no sharing mood, and the only other witnesses were Dobby and Regulus Black. Dobby was busy cleaning out two decades of neglect at the Potter Manor, and Regulus Black-- well, no-one had seen Regulus Black since he'd given back the diary in the Chamber, not even the other ghosts, or so swore Sir Nick. So there was no-one to tell Rita Skeeter anything. It didn't stop her guessing, but Harry found he could ignore her with more equanimity lately.

The first week of classes was difficult as everyone adjusted to all the changes. There was the added difficulty of Harry making an unwitting spectacle of himself with the sword. He'd thought he'd got more or less used to it in the weeks since Christmas, but he discovered whole new difficulties back at school. His fellow students had a tendency to stop and stare when they saw Harry using it to cast spells. His first Quidditch practise demonstrated that flying with a metre-long sword strapped to his back was a non-starter. A vociferous argument with Oliver resulted in an experiment, and the experiment demonstrated to his awe-struck teammates that the sword did not especially care where Harry happened to be or how impractical it was to choose mid-flight as the time to assert its ownership of Harry. Potions was a near disaster. Snape at least was relieved of the burden of being the favoured object of gossip after Harry and his bulky sword accidentally knocked Parvati Patil's cauldron off its stand, splashing everyone in range with half-completed Regerminating Potion. Since it had no ill effect other than a lingering stench Snape spared Harry a detention, but he did make Harry mop up the mess, and the sword was no more useful when Harry was on his knees under the desks scrubbing the flagstones.

In most his other classes the sword was not so burdensome-- Sirius, in fact, loved it for Duelling, and even Savage displayed some semblance of enthusiasm for the first time Harry had ever seen in him. Elphias Doge was highly intrigued and devoted his first series of lectures to the relics of the Founders, waxing lyrical on the mysteries of ancient spellcasting. McGonagall was not so readily convinced. She was concerned, she told Harry privately after their first class of term, that the sword had obviated Harry's misapprehension of the manifestation of magic-- he understood that to mean she thought the sword was a crutch as he was still too stupid to understand the theory of Transfiguration. She perhaps was not wrong about that. Harry couldn't explain how he could turn Trevor the Toad into a water goblet. Nor could he explain being able to do it without the proper spell, only a word which, McGonagall informed him with a grimace, amounted to little more than a wish. Harry would allow that telling Trevor the Toad 'Change, please,' wasn't especially dignified, but he was no less frustrated to be saddled with extra reading. McGonagall came up short of assigning him a new student tutor, however, given what had happened to the last one.

The worst, however, was Charms. Dolores Umbridge was not only unimpressed with the sword, she immediately and humiliatingly called Harry to the front of the class to account for it.

'I'm not really supposed to talk about it,' Harry said uncomfortably.

Umbridge stood facing him from the dais at the head of the classroom, which put her squat height just slightly above his. She wore a robe of functional and slightly frumpy black, but the fingernails at the ends of her chubby hands were varnished pink and her curls were powered pale lilac. Unlike Tonks, whose Metamorphmagic often changed her appearance, Umbridge had to rely on charms or cosmetics. Harry spotted a tin of Lockhart's Lucious Locks peeping out the open top of her pink handbook sitting on her desk.

It was her expression, however, that Harry found most discomfiting. She looked at Harry with a strange eager light in her eyes. As if he were a bug and she was going to enjoy squishing him.

'You have been asked a question, Mr Potter,' she told, in a prim little voice that could be heard perfectly from every corner of the room. 'Why do you not have a wand, as required?'

'He-- someone-- took it, Ms Umbridge.'

'Professor.'

Dumbledore hadn't called her Professor. Harry had only taken his cue from that. 'Professor,' he said.

'And you are a student,' Umbridge continued, speaking in that slow high tone as if he were a baby incapable of understanding real adult words. At least McGonagall never talked down to Harry. 'You are a student, are you not, Mr Potter? And, as such, subject to all the same requirements as these other students, who arrived prepared?'

'But I--'

'Yes, Mr Potter?'

Harry bit his lip til it hurt. 'Yes, Professor,' he said.

'And you are aware, Mr Potter, that there are no weapons allowed in school?'

'A wand is a weapon.'

He saw immediately he'd erred. She reminded him of how Snape had been, that first day in Potions, ready to pounce on anything he said to twist it. He was not going to win this. His only hope was silence, to not give her words to twist. He latched his mouth shut and put a firm lid on his temper, which was already making him hot under the collar. It would do no good here.

Umbridge's smile was sickly sweet. 'No-one here has ever used their wand as a weapon, I'm sure,' she replied, raising her voice just the slightest bit to pitch to the back of the class. 'None of us have any need to hurt anyone. Have you hurt anyone, Mr Potter?' She waited an agonisingly long time, but Harry refused to answer. 'I'll need you to hand over the sword, Mr Potter.'

It wouldn't do any good, the sword would come back to Harry no matter where she tried to lock it up-- and the moment Harry thought it, he saw her gambit. She'd be able to say he'd stolen it back. She wanted him in trouble for some reason, and a disappearing sword would be all the excuse she needed even if Harry didn't backtalk her. Still. There was nothing for it. Harry unbuckled the harness and held the sword out. It was nearly as tall as both of them, with the presence of a thousand years of history, and it was thrumming again, Harry was sure of it, and was sure as well it was not a good sign.

'And as you can not participate in this class without a wand, Mr Potter,' Umbridge added then, 'there is no good in your being here. You are dismissed.'

He let go of the sword with a spasm. It was all he could do to nod. He about-faced and strode back to his desk, to grab his book and his bag and avoid the eyes of his classmates. He hurried for the door.

'Mr Potter.'

He stopped with his hand on the door. He couldn't bring himself to turn, but he angled his head to show he was listening.

'Detention is the usual punishment for missing class. Tonight at six. If you do not come prepared with a wand, we shall have an unfortunate repeat of this incident.' She paused, then said pleasantly, 'You may go.'

Harry flung open the door, and he went. He didn't wait to hear it slam behind him.

 

 

**

 

 

'I need a wand,' he told Sirius.

'We can go to Ollivander's at the weekend,' Sirius shrugged. He finished crating the grey discs that had been flinging all about the Quidditch field, targets for the fifth year DADA class to destroy with missile spells. 'Back-up wand's not a bad idea, I suppose.'

'I need a wand by dinner tonight.' Harry moodily stripped a weed growing at the edge of the sand pit. 'I tried everyone else's. Ron's doesn't like me much. Dean's was all right, but not great. Neville's is the strangest thing. I got a warm feeling from it, but it didn't do a thing for me.'

'Here.' Sirius drew his wand from his pocket and gave it a toss. Harry caught it, and, as he raised his arm, discovered the sword and harness had re-attached themselves. Brilliant. Harry shoved the crossbar away when it jabbed familiarly at him.

'Lumos,' he said, and Sirius's wand obliged, if patchily, but the sword was a jealous thing, and made such a fuss showing off that Harry was near blinded even with the light behind him. 'Oh, stop.'

Sirius laughed reluctantly. 'You're in for it, my lad.'

'Don't I know it. Who is she, anyway?'

'Some undersecretary. She's got "bureaucrat" writ all over her, and I do mean that as an insult.' Sirius sat himself on the crate, dropping his elbows to his knees and rubbing at the stubble on his chin. 'She'll try to tear you down because it might build her side up. Fudge. He's Minister for however long he can hold it, but Scrimgeour's running him hard. Scrimgeour's got you in his pocket, or so he's putting it about. Ergo, Fudge has to take another tack.'

'So Fudge sent her?'

'Every Minister puts someone in Hogwarts to watch Dumbledore. It's as old a tradition as bloody time itself.' Sirius patted his coat til he unearthed a flask. He unscrewed the top and swigged from it.

Harry twirled the wand between his fingers. 'Don't,' he pleaded softly, unable to look up.

He heard Sirius swallow again. 'Don't what.'

But it seemed Harry wasn't ready for that confrontation, either. He surrendered with a sigh. 'Have you got anything to eat?' he asked instead. 'I'll miss supper for this stupid detention.'

'Call a house elf. They'll sneak you a sandwich or something.' Sirius wiped his mouth and put away the flask. He said, 'Dumbledore thinks Regulus died here.'

That was news to Harry. 'Died here? At Hogwarts?'

'Yeah. Looking for the Horcrux. He thinks You Know Who-- well, the original You Know Who-- would've made his Horcruxes here, like the diary. Or hidden them here after. Hogwarts was the only real home he ever had. The only place he ever fit.' Sirius stared off into the setting sun. 'Reckon Reg related to that.'

'If he drowned...'

'The Black Lake. I know. It's the first thing I thought of, too. Dumbledore asked the Chieftaness of the merclan living there, but they said they didn't know of any wizards drowning in the Lake. There's a dozen other places to drown, anyway. You can drown in a bath, come to that.'

'The Chamber of Secrets, I was going to say. The waterfall. The pool. I've heard-- I've heard Voldemort had a cave somewhere, full of people the basilisk killed for him. Mightn't it be the Chamber?'

'That place was crawling with Aurors and the Order. They would've found a hundred bodies.'

'Then...' Harry wet his lips. 'There was more beyond the Chamber. The crystal caves. Regulus knew about them. The only way he'd know is if he died there, wouldn't it be? I could show you. Help you look for him. So he can rest.'

Sirius shoved to his feet. He helped Harry up to his, helped him adjust the lay of the harness, and bent to press a kiss to Harry's forehead, over his scar. 'You're a good boy, you know,' he said. 'Why don't I go swing some Lordly weight around, eh? Fudge'll need allies if he wants to stay in power. Let's see this Umbridge lackey try to tell me what she wants to do to my son.'

That was Umbridge taken care of, though Harry didn't mistake it for a cessation of hostilities. It only meant Umbridge would have to be more creative in future. But that was for the future. One day, Harry thought. One day at a time would have to do for now.

 

 

**

 

 

'Do you think they'll agree?' Harry asked.

Draco dropped his chin to his hand. 'Dunno,' he said. He traced the names on their list, dragging his finger down the margin through a smear of wet ink. 'Yes, they'll agree. Will they mean it?'

'They'll have to swear the oath.'

'Oaths don't mean much. They're just a contract. Any contract can be got out of, if you've got a good barrister.'

'You're so Slytherin sometimes.'

'Says the boy holding the snake.'

The snake and her habitat had been removed from the Charms classroom-- Umbridge's revenge on Harry. The snake had been adopted by the Slytherins instead, and had a part of their common room devoted to her comfort, though she did not like the damp of their dungeon accommodations and complained it was too dark, for all her heat lamp had been brought with her and was lit all hours of the day. 'You're spoilt,' Harry told her as she twined about his shoulders and nosed her way down his shirt sleeve. He let her sniff a bit of cooked sausage he'd saved in a napkin at breakfast. 'And you're getting fat. It would do you good to hunt for yourself instead of being hand-fed all day.'

'You are jealous,' she replied serenely, plucking the sausage from his hand and downing it in one gulp.

'So we could ask them tonight, maybe? I'll send Charlus Wasleigh to bring them all to the loft.'

'The loft's small, we'll need a bigger place than that if you want a dozen people there.' Draco huffed out a sigh and balled the parchment for the fire. 'Sure, Harry. Whatever you want to do.'

'I won't if you say it's a bad idea.'

'It's not a bad idea. Having a Light Guard with only three people in it was a bad idea. Adding more bodies between you and Tom is a very good idea.'

'You're just not sure they can be trusted.'

'And you are? You're not thick, Harry, even when you pretend to be.'

'I think trust has to start somewhere.' Harry stroked the snake's soft scales. 'Maybe it'll be betrayed someday, but you can't go about not trusting anyone.'

'You and your Harry Potterness.' Draco moved fast, and caught Harry's hand in his. His hand was a little damp, but Harry squeezed it back anyway. 'Right,' Draco said, and dropped his hold a moment later, before any heads could turn and see them. At least so Harry assumed. Maybe his hand was the one that was damp, and Draco regretted it. He rubbed his palm on his trousers. 'Don't use the portrait for the Slytherins, they won't come if a Weasley ancestor tells them to. I'll talk to them.'

'If you say so, though they're going to have to work with a Weasley.'

'They can work with a Weasley, they just won't blindly take the word of one til you've vouched for him in front of all of them.'

'Isn't that the same thing?'

'You're pretending to be thick again. Give me the sword.'

'What?'

'Give me the sword.'

Bemused but not unwilling, Harry lifted the snake back into her habitat, leaving her to curl up on a warmed rock, and unbuckled the harness. It wasn't easy to draw the sword from a sitting position-- it needed a lot of room-- but Harry got it out in a couple of less than elegant adjustments, and held it out hilt-first.

Draco didn't touch it immediately. His finger navigated the air above the sigil in the pommel, the _HP_ that proclaimed the sword Harry's. 'I looked in my father's library,' Draco said. 'For anything about relics of the Founders. There's loads. They enchanted all kinds of stupid stuff. Diaries aren't any more ridiculous than swords or diadems or what have you. Tom... Tom was obsessed with the Prince of Slytherin. He said he was Slytherin's Heir, and he'd proved it by opening the Chamber. The Heir of Slytherin versus the Heir of Gryffindor. But that's the thing. The Founders-- they never fought each other. They were equals.'

'Right,' Harry agreed, not sure he followed.

'Put it away.'

'You made me get it out for nothing?'

Draco rolled his eyes. 'You have no sense of drama.'

'And the better for it,' Harry retorted. 'There's enough drama here to soak us both.' He sheathed the sword grumpily. 'So what are you saying, exactly? No metaphors and no props, please.'

But whatever Draco had been building to wasn't to emerge. The bell rang, summoning them to supper. Harry slung the sword over his shoulder, and stood. Draco dusted his trousers and joined him. They fell into queue with the Slytherins headed out the door, shuffling along companionably in the crowd. Just as they made it exit, Draco's hand caught at his, his small finger wrapping about Harry's. Draco was too Wizarding to know about pinky swears, Harry thought, but all the same he thought that it was one. He found himself smiling.

He had another evening of waiting in Remus's loft, but this time he was calm. By the time the clock struck eight, the first of the crowd began arriving. Fred and George arrived together, of course, but so did Percy and Oliver. Ginny arrived with Ron, their bickering audible from the room below and climbing up the ladder with them to spill over into something of a family squabble that abruptly silenced when another ginger head appeared. Charlie Weasley offered his family a mystified shrug, overturning the stool and seating himself in their midst, turning expectant eyes to Harry. Cedric and Cho came in separated by five minutes' arrival, but Cho had done as asked and brought Terry Boot, who had in turn brought a book and was still arguing about interrupting his reading when he spotted Harry, blinked consideringly, and sat down without a further word. Cho rolled her eyes a bit, and sat beside her boyfriend. The last to arrive were the Slytherins, who, to be fair, had the longest route from the dungeons, but who had also, Harry suspected, taken the time for a lengthy discussion of the pros and cons of attending a secret meeting called at Harry's behest. Draco led the cohort of second years Harry had thought might agree to terms: Millie, Blaise Zabini, and Teddy Nott. Neville brought up the rear, and nodded to Harry, confirming he'd done his part, too. Harry drew a deep breath.

'Thank you all for coming,' he said. His palms began to sweat. He wiped them self-consciously on his jeans. 'I, er, uh. Thank you for all coming. To the first meeting, well, I mean, not the first, but first new-- first meeting of the new--'

'Maybe save the speeches for later,' George advised in a stage whisper.

'Or for someone who can complete a sentence,' Fred added.

'Skip the speeches altogether and just get to the good stuff,' Blaise interrupted. 'I was half hoping we'd be getting a tour of the Chamber of Secrets.'

'Yes, well.' Harry shuffled in place, twitching his shoulder to settle the sword. 'Good as any a place to start. You're all here to listen, tonight. If you want to listen, that is. To hear the truth, and decide what you want to do about it.'

That was greeted with a bit of silence. The Slytherins all exchanged glances-- excepting Draco, who met Harry's eyes alone.

'Right,' Blaise said. 'Maybe we need the speeches for context.'

A knicker from the thestrals in the stables below warned them, before the ladder shivered with a heavier weight than any of the children had been climbing up it. A dark head of hair appeared first, then a rather large nose. Harry left his spot to offer Snape his aid, knowing it would be difficult indeed to make it up the rest of the way with only one hand. He clutched at the elbow of Snape's shortened arm, providing his shoulder for balance, or at least intending to, til Snape got a shove from behind and made it up with a lurch. Sirius climbed up after him, and turned to offer his hand to Madam Hooch, then Filius Flitwick, and then the ladder groaned under the greatest weight of all, Hagrid. Hagrid, in fact, didn't come all the way into the loft, unable to squeeze in with so many people loading it up. He managed to get his arms crossed on the floorboards, blushing as he peered through a forest of knees. He nearly fell off when a caw sounded right at his ear, flailing to catch himself as Fawkes came sailing out of the rafters to land on Harry's shoulders. Harry gave his wing a stroke of gratitude, and let Fawkes's loving croon centre him for once and all.

'Welcome,' Harry said to all of them, turning in a circle to be sure all were included. 'Hi. Um. Welcome, I was saying. To the Light Guard.'

A slow grin broke over Ron's face. 'Here, here,' he said, and began to clap. After a moment, so did Hermione, smiling at Harry, and Neville did too, and last of all Draco, who nodded his approval. Harry nodded back.

 


	24. The Soul Is A Magician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which To Be Redone Is To Be Reborn._

Harry hadn't quite remembered how damp the crystal caves were. It permeated the air, a fine mist that settled on the skin, on his glasses, slowly soaking his clothes. Dumbledore again cast the spell that spared his shoes, but it made little difference overall.

Sirius walked beside them, his dark hair glittering with dew in the light of their wands. His hands hung in fists that clenched and re-clenched, like his jaw, every joint of him tense. He had no awe to spare for the magnificent sight of the crystal caves; if anything, he walked like a blind man, lost in unrelenting darkness. Dobby tripped along beside him chattering in his high-pitched voice, a sort of soothing white noise that required no real interaction between them but provided a bit of comforting reality. And Fawkes, of course, swooped along overhead, circling stalacites of ancient crystal only to return for a brief rest on whichever shoulder was most convenient. Sirius started every time Fawkes landed on him, but it wasn't til Fawkes began to make a game of nipping at the gold stud in Sirius's ear that he roused himself sufficiently to swat the phoenix away, grumbling. Harry smiled.

Smiles, however, were scarce commodities just now. They were on a grim mission, grimmer even than when they'd walked this route before. Then, a different Black had made up their number. Then, too, Harry supposed they had had the company of their determination. It had been a battle they marched to, and battles could be won; they'd had hope, too, not knowing then just what they faced. It was a different thing altogether to be marching toward a grave, with no hope of anything but an end to a long, sad story. For Sirius's sake, Harry could only hope it would not be too much. For RAB's sake-- well, Harry had only the haziest idea what happened to ghosts when they gave up being ghosts. Mr Thompkins of Crowhill had talked often of Heaven in Religion class, though he'd characterised it in the main as someplace very hard to get to, only for the best of boys, the most deserving of boys, and Crowhill boys were not usually amongst that select crowd. Heaven was a place of dead martyrs and saints, where angels stood beside the throne of God. Mr Thompkins had died at Crowhill alongside his students-- martyrs, like Regulus Black. Harry's parents. Bill Weasley. If Heaven was real, Harry thought, he would hope for them to be there. It would be too unfair if otherwise.

' _Homenum Revelio,_ ' Dumbledore said, recalling Harry from his thoughts. The Headmaster wove his wand gently through the air as if stirring a cauldron, flicking the tip to shake off an imaginary drip. And then the spell lit up the caves with a soft glow.

'Oh, my,' Dobby breathed, chorused by Fawkes's mournful cry. Sirius looked wooden in grief, numbed. Harry rather understood that. He felt a little numb himself, looking down to find his trainers, raised to the water's surface by magic, firmly planted as on a glass shelf above a body. There was no place to move away from it, though. The glow was everywhere, in every pool of water, in every cave as far as the eye could see.

'So many,' Dumbledore said faintly.

Sirius's throat bobbed in a hard swallow. 'How do we find Reg in all this?'

So many. Hundreds, Harry realised-- maybe even thousands. He stared in sick fascination at the body below him. The water was so clear he could make out every feature. It was a woman, her long hair floating in pale strands, her pale face expressionless in death. Her eyes were open. They were fixed, staring endlessly. She wore a flower pinned to her dress, a daffodil, still yellow.

'We should get them all out,' Harry said, and made himself look away.

'Yes,' Dumbledore agreed, reaching out to squeeze gently at Harry's arm. 'Yes, my boy, we should. But let us leave them undisturbed til we can do the thing with the greatest care and delicacy. We have come for one, and must retrieve him first. The rest will be no further harmed for waiting a small while longer.'

'Regulus,' Sirius said stubbornly, his chin thrust high in the air like his Pureblood cousin Draco, though it was only a refusal to be sidetracked. A desperation that would not be satisfied til they had done what they'd come to do. 'If we have to look at each of these we'll be here for days.'

'Blood will call to blood,' Dumbledore answered, turning from Harry with a final squeeze. 'Dobby, if you would, we require the cup and the knife from your knapsack.'

Harry moved his feet gingerly. He picked his path across the water, toward a thick pillar of crystal that jutted downward from the canopy of jagged growths that formed the cave's ceiling. It reminded Harry of a lightning bolt, not unlike the scar on Harry's brow. As it had been when Harry first crossed through the caves, he found that the closer he got to the crystals, the more he could feel the pulse of life-- or something less knowable than life-- in them. He laid a hand tentatively along the cool surface. He didn't exactly disregard the warning Dumbledore had given him before, that the crystals were dangerous, but no amount of minding his behaviour would have held him back. The crystals hummed, and it drew him in. It was like Fawkes's song. He could fall into that sound, fall and fall and know he would never be hurt by the hit at the bottom. He leant in, to rest his cheek against the crystal, without even a shiver at finding it slick with wet and cold. He flattened his hand to it. And he opened his eyes to it, to the vision emerging from its core.

_Hunter-Killer-Striker slithered through these depths. The pools of his hatching had provided all the sustenance of his infancy-- white crab, eyeless fish trapped so many generations ago below the surface that they had adapted to their lightless environment and feared no predator but Hunter and his kind-- bats and spiders drawn to his kills for the scraps he would leave them. The occasional man-beast who dared the dark, plumbing the caves only to meet their death at his gaze. He reigned this sightless kingdom of black for years innumerable, shedding his moulting scales against the rough walls and carving new caves over the centuriues, expanding his territory with every grain scraped out til at last the Master came._

_The Master pointed his staff and Hunter-Killer-Striker bowed his head in surrender, helpless beneath the crushing weight of magic. He nosed docilely at the Master's hand, scented the Master's power in the green cloth that swathed him, the long dark hair that tickled at the flick of Hunter's tasting tongue. Master's small human face turned up in a smile and Hunter knew affection for the first time, knew love, knew care, and not even the denial of kills and fresh meat was enough to break the bond between servant and Master. But Master grew old, as the man-beasts did, the dark hair greying and then fading to white like the denizens of the caves, and when Master laid himself to rest amidst the vision crystals and did not awaken, Hunter mourned._

_Then came the lonely years, centuries in which the dark no longer satisfied his existence, in which he longed for a kind touch, a word of welcome, a need which grew and grew inside him that could not be met-- til at long last the Chamber opened, and a small man-beast stood inside it once again, and Hunter answered his call and begged him for succor, and new Master granted it. 'Kill,' the new Master instructed him, and Hunter wondered at it, this fickle human nature which forbade a thing one time and demanded it another, but his old Master had never risen from his rest these many long years and he was so hungry, so hungry..._

Harry removed his glasses with a grimace, rubbing at the dull ache of a sudden pain in his chest. Poor Hunter. Tom Riddle hadn't known what he'd found in the basilisk, but had used him in all the arrogant assurance of a boy who wanted the world at his feet but had no kindness to spare for Hunter's immense desolation. He'd found himself a tool, and Hunter had murdered for him, again and again and again til his caves had filled with corpses, Tom's legion of the dead awaiting some gruesome fate. Yes. They had to remove the dead from the caves, or who knew what Tom would do with them.

Harry could only be thankful Quirrellmort had been consumed with trying to find the Philosopher's Stone-- could only be thankful Dumbledore had taken such care to hide the Stone where only trickery could reach it, not brute force, or they'd have faced an army of the dead, he didn't doubt it. And he thought he knew, too, why Peter Pettigrew had not been with Quirrellmort when Harry and his friends had confronted him in Dumbledore's office the night of the unicorn murders. Peter had been here, in the caves, ready to call up the dead to take Hogwarts whilst the Dementors held off all aid outside the castle. It would have been only too simple. But Harry had stopped him, Quirrell had died and Voldemort's spirit left unachored, and Pettigrew had no-one to raise an army for. Til Draco brought the diary.

Another vision. Harry set his glasses back on his nose, pressed his forehead to the crystal. _The man with the long dark hair and green cloak returned to the caves again and again, a thousand times, ten thousand. Sometimes he brought companions with him, in the early days especially: a squat woman with dirt in her fingernails, who had to be Helga Hufflepuff, the hedgewitch who used her powers to tame the earth and its elements; a stately witch who always carried a scroll with her, quill scratching out fascinated observations-- Rowena Ravenclaw, who prized knowledge above all else; a wizard who bore a warrior's weapons, a shield and a sword that, some said, he had plucked from a stone as a boy. It was Godric who gave his mentor Salazar the locket inscribed with an ess. No-- not an ess. A snake, eating its own tail, like the sign on the Door. But the others stopped coming eventually, and it was only Salazar who returned.  
_

_Time after time Salazar came to the crystal caves, his faithful basilisk slithering behind him, and he used the crystals. Hour after hour in the darkness with only the visions to guide him, and what he saw he never spoke of, but the visions weighed on him, time after time, til his shoulders grew round and hunched with the burden and his steps dragged more and more reluctant, til he dashed the crystals to pieces with magic and railed against the futures he had seen and at last broke down and wept-- til at last he did not leave, but laid himself to rest in the caves that had tormented him so, til he closed his eyes and did not open them again, hands clasped limp over a chest that no longer rose with new breath but stilled._

_Til light pierced the dark after a long, long, long time, the light of a young boy's wand. Til Tom Riddle found him there, at rest amidst the crystal, and snatched the locket from about his neck. Tom hissed, and the snake on the locket's surface writhed and opened and Tom stared curiously at the ancient lock of hair encased within. Tom brushed it carelessly to the body, strands scattering and disappearing into the night. Tom stuffed the locket into a pocket, standing over the body of the man he believed himself descended from, heir in blood if not in name, and raised his wand._

_'Incendio,' Tom said, and flame washed over the body licking hungrily. But when it snuffed out, the body was untouched. Tom stared, eyes bugging. 'Incendio,' he cried again, but the flame had no more effect than before. He cursed the body, he flung spell after spell, every hex he knew that might cause some slight damage-- but when he fled in despair, the body remained, undisturbed, its sleep unbroken. It never woke, not even when Tom returned, many years later, to bury it with the forgotten dead of his wizarding war, piling corpses about it like a gruesome monument, there to remain til--_

Harry swallowed. Til what? Til when? Now? He would do it, he promised silently. He would empty these caves, he would erase this horrible injustice, Tom's evil stain. He would.

Harry.

_Harry._

_There was light in the shadows. Flashes. Red, bright yellow, more of that green lightning. Shouting, from far away it seemed._

_Harry, someone whispered, lips pressed tenderly to his forehead, fingers on his forehead, leaving wet behind._

_Harry. Remus bent over him, wild in the glow of the Moonflower Opal clasped about his throat, but it was Remus who looked down at him in love, Remus who wept as he bent to kiss Harry's temple. Harry, he whispered, breaking, broken, a curse, an elegy. A promise. He lifted fingers that were black with ink, and he drew an X on Harry's forehead. Over his scar._

_'Sanguinis mei armum est,' Remus whispered. 'Sanguinis eius armum est.'  
_

_'Moony!' Tom Riddle called him, and with trembling fingers Remus cupped Harry's cheek, and then he was gone._

'Harry.'

Dumbledore drew him away from the pillar. He cupped Harry's cheek, his fingers overlaying the ghostly sensation of Remus's final touch. He searched Harry's eyes worriedly-- Harry felt the flutter of Legilimency against his mind, like the softest brush of Fawkes's feathers. It vanished when Harry turned his head away.

'Was that real?' he asked only.

Dumbledore did not answer immediately. Harry levelled his eyes at Dumbledore, careless now what Dumbledore would see in his memories.

'Was it real?' he repeated, demanded, and Dumbledore stared at him as if he were someone precious and something awful all at once.

'I did not see it for myself,' Dumbledore replied softly. 'I do not know, Harry, if it worked.'

'It's my mum's spell. The spell she used the night Voldemort killed her. Tried to kill me, when I was a baby. She used his blood, she cast the blood wards, and the Killing Curse didn't work.'

'So Remus believes.'

'He told me he was studying it.' The anger he wanted, the anger he expected, flared inside him, but only for a moment. It left him cold. 'Why didn't you tell me.'

'I did not know.'

'You had all the memories of the battle.' He didn't believe that. He didn't believe that, didn't know why Dumbledore would lie about it, didn't know why Dumbledore looked so troubled now. 'Will it work against both of them? Voldemort and Tom Riddle?'

'I do not know,' Dumbledore said again, and that, Harry thought, that was what pained the Headmaster so very much. 'I have already exposed you to such great danger. To risk you further is asking to be... asking to be severely disappointed.'

'It's my choice,' Harry said. 'It is, sir. Really.'

'That I do know,' Dumbledore told him. 'I will endeavour to be more worthy of you, Harry. That is _my_ choice.'

Harry breathed out a slow sigh that felt as if it came all the way from the tips of his toes. 'We're all in it together, sir. That's enough for me.'

 

 

 

Sirius bent over the cup. It was more a shallow bowl, actually, wooden and old, and the splatter of blood from the vein in his thumb had filled it to a depth no greater than a few centimetres, but it was enough to float the silver needle on the surface. The needle acted as a compass, orientating them ever onward through the caves. They were nearly, Harry knew, to the Chamber of Secrets itself; he could hear the rush of the waterfall, and the water beneath their feet had developed a current, burbling as it sped toward its spillover at the mouth of the caves. Dobby hurried forward with the torch to examine every body as they passed it, and would report back with a gentle shake of his head. There were more of them here, closer to the Chamber Tom had claimed as his own, sometimes piled three and four deep.

'Who are they all?' Harry wondered.

'Probably a lot of them are Muggles,' Sirius said. 'Or Muggleborns, or half-bloods. You Know Who was fairly indiscriminate toward the end. Only the Purebloods were entirely safe from him, and then only if they hadn't sworn against him. Fabian and Gideon Prewett were Pureblood, and it didn't save them. Nor Eddie Bones and his children. Suppose the purity of magical blood doesn't matter if you're breeding up a generation opposed to using it for power and wealth.'

'Is this... are these everyone Voldemort killed, then?'

Sirius lifted his eyes from the cup long enough to glance at Harry. 'Probably not,' he answered at a moment's consideration. 'Leastways not everyone killed by him and his Death Eaters too. No cave is big enough for that.'

'Then why these people? I mean, why keep some and not all of them?'

'He was reckless at the end,' Dumbledore answered from behind them. Harry turned to await him, and Dumbledore nodded at his attention. 'Had he been successful in bringing down the Ministry in 1980, he might have achieved all he wanted. But by all accounts something distracted him from his purpose. He let opportunities pass him by that might have ended the war in his favour.' Dumbledore required Dobby's aid to traverse a particularly tricky bit of ground, crystal-covered and difficult terrain, but resumed his reply once he was stable again. 'All the intelligence we could uncover in those final days indicated he had grown paranoid and restless. He trusted few even amongst his closest allies and spent a great deal of time consumed with esoteric studies. He feared poison, curses, infiltrators. Perhaps that is what drove him to attack the Potters, to make his final Horcruxes. He feared his own death more than he wanted to win his war.'

'Dobby,' Sirius said, pointing toward an offshoot track, barely more than a niche in the rock, ahead at their left. 'Look there.'

The little elf hurried forward. They all heard his gasp. 'Master Potter, come quick!'

Sirius was already sprinting toward him. Harry splashed after him, Fawkes winging overhead. Harry fetched up against the wall of the cave, heart in his throat as he strained to see. 'It's him,' he confirmed, staring down at the man who lay beneath the water, Regulus Acturus Black, in his corduroy trousers and wellingtons and his torn macintosh fluttering about him in the water. His face was slack in death, his long hair streaming about him in a dark halo. Sirius abandoned the cup on an outcropping of rock and thrust his hands into the water, hauling his brother out by the shoulders. Harry scrambled to help, getting hold of Regulus's legs and lifting. There was no place dry to put him, but Sirius propped him upright against the wall, crouched over him shaking.

Regulus's skin was drained of all colour, a greyish white that left the little veins standing out stark and blue like scars. There was black at his lips, smudged there from suffocation as he'd drowned, and white gleamed beneath the dark lashes of his eyes, which were open. His pupils were pinpoints of black, but all other colour had left them. Sirius tugged uselessly at his hands, scored with scratches that no longer bled, fingers locked about a wand. They gave it up without a struggle now, and Sirius bowed his head over it, stroking the wood.

Harry moved slowly, in case Sirius protested, but Sirius didn't stir as Harry brushed the wet hair out of the way and clasped the locket's chain about Regulus's chilly neck. It had no snake figure on the front, and didn't require Parseltongue to open, but he had died for it. Even if it wasn't the real locket, it belonged with its owner. Harry straightened the chain so the locket faced outward.

'I'm sorry, Regulus,' Harry told him, but it felt so unworthy. Not enough to encompass everything. 'I wish... I wish I could undo it all.'

Sirius wiped a hand over his eyes. Whether they'd been wet before or only because of the water on his hand was immaterial. 'There's no undoing it, Harry. Let's just lay him to rest. I want him... I want him at home with us in Wales, not the family mausoleum. It's what he deserves.'

It was so terribly unfair. To die for nothing like that. To die just barely out of Hogwarts, before he'd even begun to live a life of his own. I just want to do something, Harry thought, I just want to--

He'd never know, after, if it was the sword, or the unicorn blood, or for that matter the basilisk blood or the blood wards or just Harry himself. He only knew in that moment that it was welling up in him, a desire to _do something_ , to change something, to make something happen-- he only knew that he wished, he wished with all his being, and felt the pulse of a heartbeat under his fingers on Regulus's chest.

A hand shot up to close over his. The white eyes rolled up to him, and the lolling head slowly straightened on its neck.

Sirius shot into motion, too, to protect Harry. He tore Harry out of the corpse's grasp, wrenched him back as fast as could be done, wand extended with a curse snapping out. It impacted the body with an audible thud, leaving a smoking hole in the waterlogged jumper. The thing touched it with curious fingertips, pinprick eyes blinking in fascination. The grey lips parted, puckered, and then it spoke.

'Sss... sssiiiiirius,' it managed, aspirating as if it struggled to remember how to breathe, how to form the word. It made a stronger try of it the second time, and then there was no mistaking the word it said next. 'Harry.'

'Wait,' Harry shouted, lunging to stop Sirius firing off another spell. 'Sirius, wait! He knows me!'

'It cannot be an Inferi,' Dumbledore said, putting out a hand of his own to halt Sirius. 'They have never been known to speak. And Regulus would not have known Harry in his lifetime. He could only have learnt it after his death.'

'But he is dead,' Sirius protested, eyes wild as he stared down at his brother's body. 'We saw his ghost! We-- Merlin's sake, look at him!'

But it was equally undeniable that the body was quite animated. Not quite coordinated-- it took a few tries to get its limbs in working order, but work they did. Regulus climbed to his feet, bracing himself along the cave wall as he dragged himself out of the water. 'Sir-- sirius,' he said. 'Sirius. Harry. How... how...'

'Albus,' Sirius said, strangled. 'That's a damn good question. How?'

It was not a good morning for Albus Dumbledore, Harry noted, bewildered and not a little shaken himself. Dumbledore looked utterly flummoxed, and chagrined to be so. 'I wish I could tell you,' the Headmaster murmured. He shook his head. 'I can only speculate... I can only speculate whatever killed him... did not entirely finish the job.'

But Harry knew better. He knew what he'd felt. But how was it possible? He balled his hands into fists to stop them shaking.

There was a brief and awkward standoff. They all stood in the dripping cave staring each other down, no-one willing or able or certain enough to make the first move. Then Fawkes came flapping down from the roof overhead, and settled on Regulus's shoulders. He pecked a spider from Regulus's hair and gulped it down, then set about preening his feathers as if he hadn't a care in the world.

Harry felt a tug at his sleeve, and looked down to see Dobby offering a thermos of hot pumpkin juice. When in doubt, Dobby always believed in the power of a full stomach. Harry took it because he knew if he didn't Dobby would be offering a litany of choice foodstuffs next, but found to his surprise that the first sip of sweet warm juice did clear his mind, and he knew what to do.

'Right,' he said, and stepped forward to offer his hand. 'Uncle Regulus,' he greeted the dead man. 'It's nice to meet you in person.'

The fingers that gripped weakly at his were uncomfortably clammy, but Harry maintained his hold. Regulus's blacked lips turned up in a hesitant smile.

'It is,' he replied hoarsely. 'Thank you, Harry.'

'Reg.' Sirius touched as if he couldn't help and desperately wished he could. He swallowed hard, and then he moved in. He embraced his brother gingerly, and Regulus returned it no less so, but when they pulled apart Regulus touched his brother's cheek.

'You're crying,' he said. 'I didn't think you knew how.'

'There's a first for everything.' Sirius rubbed his eyes again, but already the tears were ending, and his familiar mad laugh burbled up again. 'Well, let's finish the job, eh? Let's get you out of here. Reg-- come home, will you?'

Harry had never seen a dead man look shy, but he could swear that was the expression on Regulus's pale face. 'I still don't remember,' he confessed, withdrawing a bit. He reached, as if by habit, for the locket at his neck, relieved to find it there. But then the shadow of his old grief touched him, and he shook his head. 'You don't know what I've done,' he said. 'I don't know what I've done. I only know it's bad.'

'Then you'll be in good company,' Sirius told him. 'I don't care about any of that. I care about right now. Come home. That's all that matters.'

'Home, yes,' Dumbledore interrupted gently. 'We will with all haste make it so. Once we have ascertained there is no Dark magic behind this... resurrection.'

'No,' Sirius began.

'I must insist,' Dumbledore replied politely, but his tone made it clear it was no request. 'For the safety of all, for the safety of your ward. For the safety of Regulus himself, who may yet find himself unanchored in this body, if his spirit roamed free only days ago.'

Sirius's jaw was set, but he held in his temper with admirable restraint. Or maybe it was a sidelong glance at his brother's pale form, still dripping from a decade drowned in the crystal cave, that decided him. 'Right,' Sirius muttered, and thrust his chin out at Dobby. 'Kindly Apparate us out of here, will you? I want answers and I want a hot toddy and not necessarily in that order.'

'At once, Master Potter!' Dobby agreed quickly, and with a snap of his fingers did as asked. Harry had time for one last glimpse of the light at the end of the tunnel, the waterfall that plunged out into the Chamber, and then it was gone.

 

 

**

 

 

Everyone who had an opinion to give and some who had no basis for their opinions but still desired them to be aired publicly agreed: Regulus Black was unprecedented.

Inferi didn't talk or think without direction. Inferi, Harry grasped somewhat late in that discussion, were something like zombies, though they didn't necessarily eat brains, or at least not at every meal. Regulus professed himself to have not the least appetite for anything, much less brains. Neither could he drink blood like vampires, facing the twin impediments of quite normal-sized eye-teeth unsuitable for puncturing carotid arteries and none of the means for the digestion of blood-- vampires, Harry had already learnt in Defence Against the Dark Arts, had an additional stomach sac nestled in amongst the dead remains of their human organs. Regulus hadn't developed any new organs at all, Miss Applebaum the mediwitch confirmed, but the ones he had left were most definitely dead. The experiment of Regulus having a sip of his brother's hot toddy confirmed they were very much nonfunctional, and everyone splashed with the viscous black ichor Regulus vomitted were in no haste to proceed with further experiments. He was not a banshee, for those were born as banshees and did not live human lives at all; he was not a ghoul, for despite being found in what could be described as a graveyard he could not feast on the dead, for the same reasons he couldn't feast on the living; he was not a lich, nor a mummy, nor a wight.

'Revenant,' Severus Snape proposed, in his deep voice usually so evocative of scorn or disaste. Not so now. Now, he was only amazed, and wondering, and perhaps a little uneasy. He assiduously avoided looking at Harry.

'Aren't those supposed to be in advanced states of decay?' Scrimgeour questioned.

'They aren't supposed to be anything-- they're a literary invention,' Snape muttered. 'Frightened mediaeval villagers with overstimulated superstitions.'

So Regulus Black was without precedent and also without a name, without fellows. One thing he was not without was a criminal history, and Harry heard all of it, as Scrimgeour read from a file freshly retrieved from the archives. Regulus had been known as a Death Eater, fingered by several of his compatriots in the aftermath of Voldemort's defeat. But by then he'd vanished without a trace, and shortly after declared dead. Regulus had, at best, a patchy memory of it all, but denied nothing. Sirius did that for him, pointing out that the dead could not be accused of anything, nor sent to Azkaban for it. As there was no arguing that Regulus was not, in fact, quite dead, that seemed to be the end of it. Scrimgeour was not best pleased, and went away warning them to expect a follow-up appointment from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, which would be sure to want to do its own determination.

Snape stopped him at the door. 'What if more of them return?'

The Chief Auror paused. 'What's that?'

'The Dark Lord's dead. What if more of them return?'

Scrimgeour about-faced. 'You think that's possible?'

It didn't matter if Snape wasn't looking at Harry, then-- everyone else did. 'Er,' Harry replied intelligently.

'Mr Black?'

'Potter,' Sirius corrected automatically, then grimaced. 'It happened while you were-- gone,' he told his brother.

'I meant Mr Regulus Black, actually.' Scrimgeour returned slowly, an almighty frown drawing his face to a shuttered and unhappy point. 'Well, boy? Any guesses?'

'I don't know what's brought me back,' Regulus said. 'Only that I was in the dark, and then Harry was there, calling me toward the light.'

' _Er,_ ' Harry said.

Everyone, it seemed, was holding their breath then. Except for Regulus, who didn't breathe, but who did look at Harry with apology.

'I can think of nothing that would more undermine You Know Who and Tom Riddle both than the restoration of his army of the dead,' Scrimgeour began.

'Hold, Rufus,' Dumbledore interjected. 'You are, no doubt, quite correct, and I would see it done if only to bring justice to his many victims. But I must urge caution against subjecting Harry to what will, equally without doubt, be harrowing at its least and devastating at its worst. What if he should fail? How could he live with that failure? What if he should expend so much of his magical core in the attempt that he could never recover it?'

'I don't know what I did,' Harry felt he ought to confess. 'I don't know I was the one who did it. Maybe it was the sword.'

'The sword of Gryffindor is a wondrous object, to be sure,' Dumbledore murmured. 'When Godric Gryffindor plucked it from the stone as a boy he went on to do things his contemporaries found miraculous--'

'From the stone?' Harry gaped as the realisation hit him. 'King Arthur took a sword from a stone. This is the same sword?'

'It is the same sword, indeed,' Dumbledore confirmed. 'Or so our myths tell us. Some believe the sword was forged by Macsen Wledig, or Magnus Maximus, as he was called in the Latin, an ancient Roman emperor. Others claim the sword had more magical origins. The sword has many names-- _Caledfwlch_ , in Wales, _Caladbolg_ in Ireland, _Escalibor_ amongst the French, _Caliburnus_ by the time of Hogwarts' founding. Quite where Godric Gryffindor came by it is unknown today, but as he was a warlock with a great interest in weaponry both Wizarding and Muggle it is thought he specifically sought this legendary sword for his own. Very little is taught about the Founders' Era until the NEWTs level, Harry, so I wonder whereby you came your intuition?'

'Muggles have lots of stories about King Arthur.'

'In the age before the Statute of Secrecy, our worlds were much more permeable. I admit I am gratified to know such memories of those days live on in the Muggle world.'

It seemed ages and ages ago now, but Harry was suddenly uneasy at the memory of his Dobby-assisted trip to Cornwall on the first day of term. Was it only coincidence he'd been sent so near Tintagel, King Arthur's birthplace? And he was uneasier still to remember that Dumbledore had known to have Harry reach into Godric Gryffindor's hat to pull out the sword. There had been so much happening Harry had rather forgot that detail, but it seemed now there was very little coincidence and a great deal of fate at work. Harry could have done without it, all told. There was more than enough to be getting on with, in his opinion, without factoring in the mystic.

'Very gratifying,' Scrimgeour agreed, not at all as impatiently as Harry would have expected. He was suddenly rather thoughtful instead. He said, 'And Master Harry was granted the sword by Gryffindor's hat.' He paused again, his frown deepening as he reached conclusions evidently not far from Harry's own. 'On second thought, I'm not at all sure I like the notion of the Founders still playing a hand in our lives. The dead should stay dead.' He paused a third time. 'Present company excepted, I'm sure,' he added.

Well, if fate had handed Harry Excalibur, the least he could do was offer to use it properly. 'I can try whatever you want me to try,' he said. 'If it will help those people.'

'What would you do with them?' Sirius wanted to know.

'Do?' Scrimgeour repeated.

'Do. With a couple thousand re-animated dead folk. Who are probably Muggle. You're just going to return them home, looking like _that_ \-- sorry, Reg-- with a pat on the back and a good luck?'

That put everyone on stop. Scrimgeour's frown reached its deepest point yet and then faded into closed eyes and resignation.

'May I suggest we take this opportunity to study the problem,' Dumbledore suggested diplomatically. 'And perhaps as time passes Mr Black will regain some of his memory, and we will learn more valuable information from his experience which we may turn toward this issue. I propse we allow Mr Black to return home with his brother, should he wish, there to recover. Mr Potter, being only twelve, is required to complete his second term. The summer holiday is no great wait in the grand scheme. By then we may well be better equipped to take on this adventure.' Dumbledore rose, and bumped against his desk accidentally, knocking a pile of books into a spill. 'Ah, how disorganised of me. Mr Potter, you are young and agile-- would you kindly return these to the shelf for me?'

Harry moved in a daze because it was the polite thing to do, but it wasn't til he was halfway up the stepladder of the bookcase that it occurred to him magic could easily have replaced the books. And done it at a more convenient time. Nonetheless he put the books back where Dumbledore indicated, shelving a tome on sigils and symbols, an anthology of Belgian housekeeping spells from the 1400s, a digest of knitting patterns, a book on artefacts of the Founders--

Dumbledore, Harry thought, would have made an excellent Slytherin. Harry looked down to find the Headmaster watching him, and, from the right side so that only Harry would see, Dumbledore winked. Harry shelved the book just beneath the Sorting Hat's stand behind a glass door. 'All done, sir,' Harry said, and climbed down again. There'd be no forgetting where to find that book when he could come back alone to look.

'Thank you, Harry,' Dumbledore murmured.

'No, sir,' Harry answered. 'Thank you.'

'Is it too much to hope for a quiet term?' Snape asked ironically.

'Not bloody likely,' Scrimgeour snorted. He turned to go again, only to turn his head back toward Harry. 'By the way, Master Harry, you're officially forewarned-- Gilderoy Lockhart's just signed a deal to publish another book. A tell-all, so my informant tells me.'

Harry didn't catch himself in time to stifle his groan. At least he wasn't the only one. There was a rather resounding agreement from every adult assembled. Regulus looked on curiously.

 

 

**

 

 

'Ouch! Ron, you stood on my foot!'

'Your foot stood in my way,' Ron retorted breezily, and Harry was obliged, once again, to mediate.

'Just a little further,' he said, and contrived to move them along more or less in concert til they stood before the gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore's office. 'Hermione, you're sure this will work?'

'Fred and George swore the Marauder's Map confirmed it,' she said, letting the invisibility cloak sag as she dug out her notebook. 'Prongs and Padfoot in particular said this worked and they'd used it themselves three times-- although Dumbledore did catch them at it once and always seemed to know when they'd been in there.'

'I don't think it's the being in there that's a problem, as such,' Harry said. 'It's whatever we're going to learn about the sword that he doesn't want other people to know just yet.'

'I think a lot of this stuff would be loads easier if everyone just told everyone else what they were thinking instead of mucking around on tiptoe,' Ron complained.

There was truth to that, Harry knew. On the other hand, he wasn't sure he was ready to go about telling people he had an all-powerful sword strapped to his back. Especially one he couldn't control all that well.

It took Hermione a few tries, and it was an awkward business, arranging the cloak to fully cover her hand as she extended it with the feather duster poking out visible to anyone who happened to wander by at midnight. But once she found the right spot, the gargoyle began to shiver, then squirm, then make muffled giggling sounds as she tickled its armpit. 'Stop!' it gasped at last, 'Stop, please, whoever you are, ahahahaha--'

'Let us in and she'll stop,' Harry promised. 'And remember, we were never here.'

'Oh, just go then,' the gargoyle gasped, and the stone door slid open. Harry hurried his friends past the gargoyle, though Hermione did get in a whispered 'Thank you!' before the door closed after them again.

'Are you sure about this, Harry?' Ron asked, as they shed the cloak in the oppressive dark of Dumbledore's office. It had been a sweaty business, getting all the way from the Gryffindor dorms across the school, and they were all quietly relieved and, Harry was sure, quietly planning to include mandatory tooth-brushing before they ventured this again. Fawkes winging out of no-where to land on the chairback nearest Harry startled all of them, wringing a small shriek, hastily cut off, from Hermione. Heart pounding, Harry offered Fawkes a welcoming stroke to the crest.

'You won't tell, will you?' he asked Fawkes. The phoenix turned his elegant head to one side and then the other, to peer at Harry full-on with his large black eyes. Then, decision made, Fawkes fluffed his feathers and settled in for a nap. Soon he was snoring. 'You're worse than Draco with the drama,' Harry muttered fondly, and left him to it.

There it was, just as it had been left the other day. The bookshelves, the stepladder, and the Hat, in its display case. Harry rubbed damp palms on his pyjama trousers. Sure about this? Nothing like. But up climbed, and when he stood on the top step stretching to reach-- Ron was tallest and had really ought to have done this part-- Harry touched the tips of his fingers to the glass door and said, _'Alohomora.'_ It opened readily. With a deep breath, Harry touched the brim of the Sorting Hat, tugged it toward him, and got it over the ledge and onto his head.

 _'Weeeeell, good evening, Mr Potter,'_ the Hat said.

'Hullo, sir,' Harry replied.

_'I don't usually have second opportunities to speak with the young students of this school. Have you by some strange means become Headmaster so soon?'_

Harry nearly answered that before he realised he was being teased. He turned about to sit on the ladder, looking down at Hermione and Ron who waited below. Hermione clutched her housecoat about her, her hair wrap leaving her eyes unusually wide in her face. Ron had enough bushy hair for both of them, having managed a few hours of sleep before they'd met up for their sneaking. Ron yawned widely.

'I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions,' Harry said.

_'I have nothing but time, young man.'_

'Thank you.' Harry picked at the knees of his trousers. 'Er, are you-- are you really Godric Gryffindor?'

_'Hm. I am not, or not quite. I was made by that wizard, yes. I retain some aspect of him. In the end, Mr Potter, I am an object of that man's intention, but still an object and not a man.'_

Harry wasn't entirely sure he understood that. 'But you remember him. You know everything he knew?'

_'Yes, I remember him, as I remember all I have encountered. No, I do not know everything he knew. I was made at a point in time, and beyond that point knew only what he told me, in conversations much like this. Then, too, I have since known a great deal that Godric could not, having passed beyond the Veil as I continued on.'_

'Dumbledore talks to you a lot.'

_'Many Headmasters of this school have sought information or advice. Some choose never to do so. I do not at all mind discussing the vagaries of my long existence, Mr Potter, but I sense you have something more urgent to ask.'_

'Um.' Harry flattened his hands to his knees, blew out a breath that shook slightly. 'How did Godric Gryffindor make you, may I ask?'

_'I believe you already know the answer to that.'_

'You're a Horcrux,' Harry said quietly.

_'I am, yes.'_

'Like Tom Riddle's diary. My mum's wand. Me.' Harry wet his lips. 'Did you know what I was? When we-- met-- during the Sorting?'

_'Many have dual natures for a multitude of reasons. They fight against their own natures, their own impulses and instincts, they strive to be more, they allow themselves to be less.'_

'You told me I'd do well in Slytherin.'

_'So you would have.'_

'Because of me, or because of the Horcrux in me?'

_'Slytherin is only a House, young sir. Who you are is a much greater question than which House you belong to. Who you are is a choice-- something you articulated very well during your Sorting, if you recall. You could have followed your own nature, or you could have chosen to follow the nature of he who made the Horcrux within you. Either could have been satisfied in Slytherin. Either could be challenged by Gryffindor. My remit is solely to suggest the place best suited to provide you what you need to grow.'_

'I'm not sure that really answers anything at all.'

The Hat chuckled. _'Ponder it, young Mr Potter. I would be glad to discuss it again some day.'_

Harry rubbed an itchy nose, and decided to get back to the important questions. 'Who did Godric Gryffindor kill? To make you into a Horcrux? Dumbledore said it's Dark magic, but he was a Light wizard, wasn't he?'

_'Yessss... and no. Light and Dark are not the only magicks. Even in this modern time. To be a warlock is to dance with death, is it not? Godric fought and killed a thousand times over. So did each of the Founders. But life and death were more intimately entwined in those days, and the living were much closer with their dead. Even with their own deaths. What is a Horcrux but an understanding that life and death are not opposites, but two sides of the same coin?'_

'And the sword? What's the sword? Is it a Horcrux, too, or something else?'

_'Ah, well deduced. Whose Horcrux do you think it is, then?'_

Ron was getting antsy below, only hearing one side of the conversation. Hermione was taking notes at a frantic pace, though what she made of what little she could hear, Harry didn't know.

'Godric Gryffindor,' Harry said. 'He made you, and he made the sword. Or... or, he chose the sword when he wanted to make a Horcrux, because it was already powerful on its own, and he wanted to bind it to himself-- no, to add a part of himself to what made it powerful. Like Voldemort trying to make a Horcrux out of his wand.'

_'Not a bad guess, though off the mark. What made the sword so powerful was the Horcrux already in it-- the Horcrux used to forge it, or so my maker believed. Whose it was-- well, that was already lost to legend even then. But that it was soul-forged was beyond doubt. Imagine, if you can, Mr Potter, a world in which the spirits and the men who would become spirits were as closely entwined as family. A world in which everything had a soul and the soul of everything was understood to be the same-- not just equal in man and beast, but made of the same stuff, a single river of soul which flowed through each living thing. To make a Horcrux was not to preserve immortality, for there was already immortality in the Great River. To make a Horcrux was to capture a piece of the self, the piece that made a man-- or a woman-- unique amongst his fellows. To make a Horcrux was not to create, but to affirm.'_

'But I don't understand. Why does Dumbledore say it's so Dark, then?'

 _'In this modern age, when no-one believes in anything, the meaning has been lost, and only the method remains. I Sorted Tom Riddle, too, you know, and I know what he became with time. He twists all that he learns, and he deforms all that he touches. He had a greedy mind.'_  There was silence between them, for a long minute. Then the Hat asked,  _'What will you do with what you have learnt this night?'_

'There's a thousand people in the caves below Hogwarts,' Harry said quietly. 'He killed them all. What was he trying to make with them?'

_'Is this your mystery to unravel, Mr Potter?'_

His, yes. Dumbledore would help, and Sirius and Regulus and the Light Guard and the Order of the Phoenix and the Knights of Jupiter. Harry touched his scar, under the brim of the Sorting Hat, thinking one more time of Remus tracing an X there, to mark the spot, to save him, to safeguard him. To keep him alive so he could right a murderer's wrongs.

'Do you know,' Harry said, 'as nice as the river sounds-- the great river you were talking about-- I think one life is enough. Even a short life. We have this life, this one life, to do all we can. And that's got to be enough. Just-- do your best. Whatever happens after, beyond the-- beyond the Veil-- in the river-- whichever, it's... it's out of our hands then. So this life is the one that matters. And that's why there's all this business about choice. Because all we can do is choose, and keep choosing, how we want to live. Not how we die.'

_'Belief is but another choice we make. If you believe this, then live it to the fullest.'_

'Yes.' Yes. Yes, Harry thought. I will.

'Thank you,' he added then, and removed the Hat. He stood to place it gently on its shelf. He snagged the book on Founders' artefacts, and climbed down the ladder.

'Get what you needed?' Ron asked, yawning again.

'Reckon I did, or close enough.'

'Good.'

'Yeah.' Harry removed his glasses to rub his eyes. 'Ron, Hermione... I'm really glad I have you. In case I haven't said it lately.'

'Yeah, we know,' Ron shrugged. Hermione swatted him. 'No, I know,' Ron admitted, rubbing his arm and giving Harry a subdued smile. 'We're glad to have you too, Harry.' The smile faded from his face, and though he bit his lip he said it anyway, and firmly. 'We'll be by your side when you fight,' he told Harry. 'And we'll win. I really think we will.'

'I do too,' Hermione added. 'I'm not pretending it will be easy, nor even so easy as last time... but I really do think we'll win. We have to.'

Harry nodded. 'Yeah,' he agreed, and put himself between them, to pick up the cloak and give it a toss over their heads. It got caught up on the sword in back, and Ron fixed it from his side as Hermione fussed to make sure they were fully covered at the hem. Harry looked fondly at them both, and laced his arms with each of them.

'Let's get back to bed,' he said, and they did.

 


	25. That Familiar Conviction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which One Ends One's Journey Home Again-- Or Else Begins Anew._

'RJ?'

'No, Da, Remus isn't here,' Sirius said in tones of long suffering, smothered under determination. He wheeled Lyall's chair into place beneath the window and fussed with the wheel locks. 'The sun feel nice? Beautiful day. Maybe we'll go for a walk later.'

'It's going to rain,' Harry predicted. 'Here, Grandda.' Harry brought a cup of tea, spelled not to spill-- Hermione had unearthed a book of spells specific for baby- and elder-care and, though Harry was not allowed to use magic at the summer, had nonetheless found them very useful in maintaining the peace in their cottage. Lyall had a tendency to forget he was holding things. The charm against breaking china had been dashed useful, too.

 _'Bachgen,'_ Lyall said, blinking at him, but seemed to recognise Harry well enough, and beckoned him in for a hoarse whisper. 'Tell me, lad, who's that pale fellow in the corner?'

'That's Regulus,' Harry said again, as he had done several times before and would again. 'He's Sirius's brother.' He put the tea in Lyall's claw-like hand and patted his knee. 'Remember, don't play cards with him, he's a shark. He'll have you out of house and home.'

'It's not either going to rain, the telly man said it's only thirty percent chance.'

'You're the one who complains they're always wrong about the weather,' Harry pointed out, seating himself on the couch beside Lyall and accepting a hot pumpkin juice with a-- Dobby winked as he served it-- a chocolate-filled pastry. It wasn't proper breakfast, but Dobby did as Dobby felt best in any situation, which tended toward fattening Harry up nearly every time. Dobby and Mrs Weasley had a brisk trade in recipes going. Harry ate a bite obediently so long as he was being watched, and fobbed the rest of it off on Lyall, who, Harry reconciled himself, could still use the extra weight and anyway delighted in the subterfuge, winking back at Harry himself and devoting himself to the pastry with child-like enthusiasm.

Regulus took the cushion to Harry's other side. As he could neither eat nor drink, breakfast was a wasted affair on him. But he had other things to occupy him. 'Look,' he told Harry, and produced a careful swirl and swish with his wand. A faint breeze came from nowhere, ruffling their hair and smelling distinctly sulphurous. 'Sorry,' Regulus apologised, watching Harry sneeze and wave away the rotting eggs miasma. 'I can't figure out the odour.'

'Still, that's getting better,' Harry encouraged him. 'And it's not nearly so hinky as your Lumos.'

That was a disaster best left unrepeated. The kitchen still had burns they couldn't polish out, no matter how Sirius tried. 'Severus reckons I can get it eventually,' Regulus said gloomily, returning his wand to the holster in his boot. 'I'm not sure it's worth the bother, but he insists I keep at it.'

'That's how I feel about potions, and he won't let up on that either.'

As if speaking had summoned him, a knock at the door announced Snape's arrival, prompt as always at half eight though the household had been slow getting started and were all still in their pyjamas, excepting Regulus who also did not sleep and tended to spend those quiet hours reading whatever he'd most recently borrowed out of the Potter library. Dobby popped in from the kitchen to open the door, sweeping low in a bow before he caught himself with a blush. The habits of a lifetime were difficult to unlearn. 'Mister Severus Snape,' Dobby announced to the rest of the family, though they were all quite aware of who had come in, being seated in the sitting room with a clear view of the door four feet away. 'Dobby has a cup of Mister Snape's favourite chai brewing for him,' Dobby promised, and popped away to fetch it.

'Black,' Snape greeted Sirius.

'Potter.'

'Black,' Snape greeted Regulus next, who smiled his small smile, as if the muscles of his face couldn't quite get a grasp on an exercise that had been all too rare in his life before. Snape set his satchel on a chair, and took the mug Dobby brought him. 'I expected you to be ready, Harry,' he chided, but Dobby distracted him with a tray of fresh-baked treats, and Snape allowed himself to be drawn away long enough for Harry to scarper upstairs.

When Harry returned dressed in jeans and a Red Dragon tee, a souvenir from kicking off the summer Quidditch season with the Weasleys last week for the Welsh National Team, he found their number had expanded to include several additional visitors. Dumbledore was sat beside Lyall on the couch now, spreading Dobby's apple butter on a thick slab of nut loaf. Tonks had come, too, and lounged at the kitchen door chatting with Charlie Weasley. They, too, wore their Quidditch shirts, Tonks in a green shirt that read 'GWENOG!' after the dashing captain of the Wales team. Charlie's broad shoulders and big arms bulged in his Alejandra Alonso jersey, as he good-naturedly argued the merits of rooting for underdogs despite the magnificent loss of the Brazilians against the Welsh. Snape watched them from across the room, scowling and gripping his tea as if he'd like to crush whatever he was imagining it was-- Charlie Weasley's head perhaps. Regulus patiently waited for Snape's attention to return to him so he could finish showing Snape his wind spell. Most surprising, however, were Mr Malfoy and Draco, who at least didn't look overly odd in their wizard robes with Snape also dressed more formally, though Mr Malfoy put everyone to shame with his summer cashmere in taupe that burnished his blonde hair a bright gold. Draco looked grumpy in a over-tailored robe of pale teal and coral plaid, the crowning affect of which was an ascot in bright pink. He caught Harry's snigger from the stairs, and promptly stuck his nose in the air.

'Mother picked it out,' he muttered rebelliously as Harry joined him. 'She sent it from Milan. She says it's the latest fashion there.'

'Milan must be full of pillocks, then,' Harry observed. 'Are you going calling in that get-up? If Blaise sees you in that you'll never live it down.'

'Blaise had better contain himself if he knows what's good for him. You too, Potter.' Draco poked Harry in the gut, and Harry squirmed away ticklishly. They had a brief warring exchange, each trying to get the other to giggle first, til Mr Malfoy cleared his throat pointedly and Draco subsided, blushing.

'Master Harry,' Mr Malfoy said then, setting his delicate espresso cup in its saucer and performing a bow which, unlike Dobby's, stayed in place til Harry had made an uneasy noise of thanks. 'How kind of you to make your home available for Dumbledore's announcement.'

'I didn't know he had one,' Harry said truthfully. 'Nothing's happened, has it?' he asked with sudden dread, but Mr Malfoy was already shaking his head.

'No, good news to report, for once,' he promised. 'After some months of careful negotiations, to which I have been flattered to be asked to contribute--' Draco rolled his eyes where his father couldn't see, and Harry rightfully guessed that meant money, and a good deal of it-- 'We have achieved much of what we wished for. Now the planning begins; but I shall leave that to the Headmaster to tell you all.'

Dumbledore did indeed call for attention, then, and Harry found himself busy momentarily locating chairs for everyone, though he'd no sooner hauled one in from the dining room than Dobby delivered the rest with a snap of his fingers and a scolding for Harry taking on an elf's work. Harry sat himself on the hearth, Draco sweeping his long plaid skirts out in a fan that got in Harry's way and sitting elegantly beside him. Dumbledore had a final sip of his tea, handed it over to Dobby, and brushed a few crumbs from his long moustaches. 'Good morning, all,' he greeted the crowd, smiling round at them. 'And thank you for gathering with little notice. Though many of you will have the news at a later date, to facilitate your tasks in days to come, I thought some advance warning and frank discussion would serve in our best interests.'

Snape's face had gone even more sour than usual. 'Then it's truly happening,' he said.

'Yes, Severus, we have succeeded in our negotiations. The Triwizard Tournament will come to Hogwarts.'

There was a rumble of reaction at this, some pleased, some less so. Harry was, in the main, confused, and looked to Draco for explanation. Draco seemed cautiously excited, then frowningly suspicious.

'It's an inter-school competition,' he whispered to Harry. 'It hasn't been held for a long time. Since before the war at least.'

'What, like magic schools?'

'Honestly, Potter, of course magic schools.'

'Well I don't know, do I?'

'The Tournament is a necessary fiction,' Dumbledore was answering Snape. 'Not to say it will in any way be a fiction-- the International Confederation of Wizards will oversee the bureaucratic realities, but we who are in the know will be, must be, at a much more important task. And that task, Mr Potter, will be securing allies for you.'

Harry jumped to be suddenly addressed. 'Me, sir?'

'The Triward Tournament will bring the best and the brighest of your generation to Hogwarts,' Dumbledore told him seriously. 'It will be an unmatched opportunity for you to make the acquaintance of witches and wizards who would otherwise have no chance to meet you, and to learn of your cause. And I very much believe that we must bring as many of them as we can to your side, Harry. Many years ago, in the war against Grindelwald, we had allies throughout the Commonwealth, on the Continent, and in the Americas, who provided immeasurable aid in turning back Grindelwald's armies. Though we do not yet know what we may face in the twin threats of Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort, we must anticipate that they will turn to their historic allies. Britain stood very much alone the last time Lord Voldemort rose. I would prefer the benefit of overwhelming force this time.'

'Does the Ministry know?' Tonks asked, and at this Dumbledore exchanged a long look with Mr Malfoy, who diffidently declined to answer-- aloud, at least. Draco caught Harry's eyes and confirmed it with a slow blink. Scrimgeour knew, through the games of espionage performed by unwilling spies. Mr Malfoy had taken Remus's place as Scrimgeour's man at Dumbledore's side, though Harry rather imagined they were all being a bit more honest about it these days. But Scrimgeour was not yet Minister for Magic, and, til he was, the current Minister Cornelius Fudge was determined to be an obstacle.

'The Minister is aware the Tournament will be called,' Dumbledore said at last. 'And will doubtless have plenty to do arranging and supporting its events. Any more than that, dear friends, will remain between us.' Dumbledore noticed Harry chewing his lip, and amended his statement. 'Those who need to know,' he said, laying a finger alongside his crooked nose.

'Yes, sir,' Harry nodded, taking that as permission to send a letter with the pertinent details as soon as could be done. And permission to relieve himself of the burden of research. Hermione would no doubt have a dozen sources and an essay for him by the weekend. Satisfied he'd eventually know what everyone was talking about, Harry relaxed and allowed himself to just listen and absorb.

'Inviting Durmstrang within our walls is a danger,' Snape said, as if he'd said before and was tired of going ignored. 'Igor Karkaroff--'

'Karkaroff was never more than a reluctant member of our company,' Mr Malfoy interrupted. 'He happily named a dozen of his fellows to escape a lengthy sentence in Azkaban. He wouldn't be welcomed back even if he wanted to rejoin our number.'

'Just to be terrifically clear,' Sirius said, 'we're saying he was a Death Eater. And you're saying you're still one.'

'There are no Death Eaters,' Mr Malfoy returned evenly, though his jaw was clenched and only a thin veneer of courtesy covered his words. 'Not now. If-- when-- there are again, you will want for someone on the inside, and as our last candidate for that position has irrevocably declared his opposition, it will fall to my shoulders, yes, if I prefer my freedom and my life to whatever rewards the Dark Lord should offer.'

'Peace, friends,' Dumbledore quietened them. Sirius mulishly fell back to the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. His brother was frowning, too, but at his feet, and Harry wasn't surprised when Regulus raised a hand to clutch at the locket he wore about his neck. It was, Harry realised suddenly, entirely possible Mr Malfoy had referred to Regulus as much as Snape. They had both been Death Eaters, and both turned on their master, and there was no way for either to go back even if they'd wanted to. If Mr Malfoy wanted to-- well, there was no going back for him, either, not really. Scrimgeour would be there to stop him if he tried. And if not Scrimgeour, his son. Draco had chosen Harry, and Mr Malfoy wouldn't lose his son, not if he could help it.

'It's not only Igor Karkaroff,' Sirius said then, evidently concluding Dumbledore wouldn't appreciate him harping on Malfoy, for all he had plenty more to say. So he did as Sirius did and found another way at his argument. 'Beauxbatons was a hotbed of Death Eater sympathy in the '80s. That's why you sent Remus there after James and Lils were--' He took a sidelong glance at Harry, but then he said it anyway. 'After they were killed. He's told me about it. Said you believed it had all just gone underground, that we needed eyes on it, listening for who spoke the loudest, who voted the wrong way, who had the money and spent it in dark corners. France was a gnat's eyebrow from declaring openly for You Know Who.'

'That is indeed true,' Dumbledore agreed. 'And though we no longer have an agent based there, we have enough intelligence to know it is likely that sentiment remains, ready to be enflamed at the slightest provocation. So we must enflame those who would oppose that. We must give them a banner to flock to. A leader to follow. We must give them someone in whom they can imbue their hopes, not just their fears. The Tournament will not be our only opportunity, but it is our first, and we must make as much of it as we can. You must make as much of it as you can, Harry.'

Harry pressed suddenly damp hands together between his knees. 'What is it you want me to do?'

'The Tournament will be open to all who wish to test their skill. You are a very young student. I cannot recommend that you attempt it, nor indeed will I do so; it is not unknown for the Tournament to be deadly for those who cannot meet its challenges.' Harry felt his eyes widen unwillingly. 'It is tentatively agreed, however, that we shall permit a few elimination rounds. I have no doubt you will be more than capable, if you should wish to try your hand at these. I will not pressure you. I believe it may well be sufficient for you to serve some other role-- some sort of school ambassador, perhaps, something which would see you present and active, in place to support our Hogwarts champion as well as make yourself known to the students of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. They will have a natural curiosity about you. If I may say, Harry, you are an impressive young man. You will win hearts by your very nature. And those hearts will be behind you, one day, when you need them.'

The last thing Harry wanted was to stand in front of a crowd of people. He didn't know how to win hearts, not really. He didn't know how he'd got the friends he did have, what it was about him that made someone like Draco do as he was doing now, reach over to take one of Harry's hands in his and look at him with calm and confidence, as if it were a given Harry would manage somehow. He didn't have anything like an idea how to do what Dumbledore wanted, and he feared it showed on his face. He ducked his head low over his knees and clutched at Draco's hand.

'Your modesty becomes you,' Dumbledore said. 'And I have an inkling that what I am asking of you is contrary to your desires. I know it will be trying for you. I would not force you. But I do hope you will consider it.'

'We'll help you,' Draco said quietly. 'Your Knights and the Guard and everyone else. It won't be just you.'

That did help, to hear that. 'Won't help much if you wear that robe,' Harry joked feebly, and Draco gave him an elbow for it, but some of Harry's instinctive panic did begin to fade, and he could think about it rationally. Rationally, Dumbledore was very much right. 'Um, I don't know what languages they speak,' he said, an even more feeble protest, though one that suddenly loomed large ahead of him. 'We had a year of French at Crowhill, but I... I wasn't very good at it, I'm not sure I remember much now...'

'Some dedicated tutoring should help with that,' Dumbledore smiled. 'And, should that not be sufficient, there are certain spells which offer short-cuts. You will be proficient enough to speak to everyone as you must.'

'Albus.' That was Sirius, and he hadn't got a jot happier about this. 'Albus, promise me. He'll be safe.'

'With all my heart, I would make Harry as safe as I can. This Tournament will make him safer. We need allies.'

'And when Tom Riddle or Igor Karkaroff or who the hell knows realises this Tournament is the perfect target? When they realise we've gift-wrapped Harry and all these young people in one arena where they can strike them off the face of the earth all at once?'

That seemed to steal the breath from everyone at once. The thought of such a horror. And it was useless to protest no-one could be so cruel, so horrible. No-one could say that after Crowhill.

Harry turned Draco's hand to look at his nails. He could remember holding Draco's hand after they'd brought him in, covered in ash from the ruins of the school. It had been embedded in his fingernails even, a line of grey grit. He had been there as Dobby ran Draco a bath, and he remembered the way the ash had left a line in the tub. Dobby had scrubbed and scrubbed to wash it away.

'That's why we have to do it, isn't it,' he said softly. 'To show we aren't scared. To show we won't let him destroy us. To show... to show him we'll fight, if he tries. It's our world. Not his.'

'Exactly so, Harry,' Dumbledore agreed. He smiled sadly. 'You have a warrior's soul, my dear boy.'

'No, sir. I just don't think someone like him should win.' Harry gave Draco's hand a squeeze, and rose. 'I'm supposed to have my Potions lesson now,' he said. 'And I know there's probably lots of things you need to talk about without me here. Professor Snape? I'm ready if you are.'

 

 

Snape was moodier even than Sirius as they set up their stations in the storeroom they had remade as a laboratory. The window was propped open to the summer breeze, which did not much alleviate the heat of their fires combined with the warmth of the day outside. Harry was just as glad for his light tee, and Snape eventually, grudgingly, shed his light green robe to his stool. He had insisted Harry continue his Potions lessons through the summer, after finishing the year with an Exceeds Expectations-- not, he'd informed Harry haughtily, that it was entirely on his own merit, but owned to the balance achieved by Harry, Draco, and Pansy, having managed by the end of the second term to get through classes without wanting to murder each other. They had not won entrance to Snape's special Potions Symposium. That honour had gone to two Ravenclaws and a Hufflepuff, which surprised no-one. Hermione had sworn to petition for Potions with the Ravenclaws next year, but that was likely a last-ditch attempt to be shot of Crabbe and Goyle, who had earned her her only EE for the year, and with it her lifelong enmity.

Though he had slowed somewhat from his usual brisk nature, there was an elegance to the way Snape moved, even one-handed. Smoothly he sifted ingredients for their Lung Clearing Potion, stirring precisely, measuring seeds for Harry to mash with the mortar and pestle. Harry envied him that grace. He himself was all elbows and knees, lately, tripping over his own feet at every turn. The only grace he had was in the air, and even on a broom he was affected. Oliver had threatened to knock Harry back to second string, Boy Who Lived or not, if he hadn't sorted himself by autumn. Sirius said it was good he was growing, that his father James had been tall and Lily tall for a woman, and having a greater reach was going to be a good thing for using that sword of his. Sirius was considering having a fencing instructor in for Harry, or whatever you called fencing with a great bloody longsword. But maybe that would wait til Harry had finished this growth spurt and wasn't so likely to spit himself on the sword by accident.

'Why are you upset about the Tournament?' Harry asked at last.

'I am not upset,' Snape replied, clipping off the words. 'I am merely questioning the wisdom of such a... large venture.'

'Are the whole schools likely to come?'

'Mm, I should imagine not. They will bring a delegation of likely candidates. In truth, the Tournament is a good diplomatic move. Previous winners often rise to prominent positions-- Dumbledore himself is a former Champion. The last time it was held was 1972; we were all too young, though I thought it was a great unfairness at the time, and you can be sure your father did, I heard him complaining all about the castle for months. He and Black were convinced they would have been masters at every task.' Snape brooded a bit as he adjusted the flame under his cauldron. 'But while it may be good diplomacy it is not good sense. The school will be full of strangers. They will be rambunctious and competitive and in high spirits. There will be incidents.'

'Incidents?'

'Accidents.' Snape was grim and quiet for a moment. 'Accidents happen during the Tournaments,' he said. 'And people may die in accidents.'

'People can die lots of ways.'

Snape looked at him sidelong. 'You are too young to be so morbid.'

'I'm not too young for most things, I think.'

'No? The young ladies of Hogwarts won't let you get away with that much longer.' This time the glance Snape threw him was reluctant. 'I don't suppose Lupin or Black's had that talk with you yet?'

'What talk?'

Snape pulled a long grimace. 'When... boys and... whomever... you truly don't know what I'm talking about?'

Harry hadn't a clue. Snape made another face at him, and put the lids on their cauldrons, one after another.

'Right,' Snape said, facing Harry and making an awkward show of crossing his arms, or as best he could do that now, holding the biceps of the shortened one and giving Harry his most fearsome look. Harry straightened defencively. 'You've seen cows at it, yes? Or dogs or cats or something?'

'At what?'

'If you're mocking me, Potter, I'll have you in detention for a year.'

'I'm not!'

'When a-- when a boy-- has-- feelings,' Snape said, with a vague and vaguely alarming gesture toward his lower half. 'About a girl. Or-- in the case of your guardians and certain others it can be-- feelings-- about other boys. You may find you wake in the night with strange dreams, and in the morning that elf of yours may need to take your sheets for washing--'

'I don't wet the bed,' Harry said, highly offended at this. 'I'm not a little boy.'

Snape made his sneeze face, eyes rolling up and staying aloft as if he prayed for guidance. 'I will locate you a book. You will read the book, and you will go to your guardian with any questions. Or Draco. I am certain _he_ could tell you anything you need to know.'

'More assignments?'

'You had better complete this one, Potter, or some enterprising sort will complete your education for you, and you the worse for it.' Snape took the lid from his cauldron, and ostentatiously returned to his brewing. 'Attend your potion, boy.'

Harry did, feeling he'd missed something there. Cows and cats and dogs and Draco? Feelings. Harry had plenty of feelings, thanks, he didn't want any more. Feelings about girls or other boys? In the case of his guardians, at least, by which Snape meant, Harry puzzled out, the fact that Sirius and Remus were in love and slept in the same bed and-- oh. Harry felt heat rush to his cheeks. Oh indeed. He would absolutely not be asking anyone else about that.

'I don't have... feelings,' Harry managed, giving his cauldron a careful stir. 'About anyone. Like that.'

'You will,' Snape said shortly. 'And mind you choose wisely when you do.'

'It's the sort of thing you can choose?'

'Regretfully, no. But you can choose how you act on it.'

Harry considered that. Considered how adults acted. Remus and Sirius seemed to feel it wasn't something you could talk openly about, and they were careful in front of Harry, but even more careful in front of others. Was that what Snape meant? 'Is that why you won't tell Tonks you like her?'

Snape's stirrer clattered as it dropped. 'I beg your _unbelievable_ pardon?'

'Tonks wasn't still dating Bill, if that's what you're worried about.'

'Potter!'

'Or Charlie. She said she's done with Weasleys anyway.' Harry added the macerated seeds to his cauldron. 'I could ask Cedric how he got his girlfriend, if that would help.'

Snape was practically spluttering. 'I do not need love advice from a fifteen year old Hufflepuff, _thank you kindly._ '

'Dunno, Cedric's really good at that kind of thing,' Harry said dubiously. 'Well, if you change your mind.'

Snape was in a high dudgeon by then, and refused to so much as acknowledge Harry the rest of the lesson. It made it a little difficult to learn anything, but Harry had more than enough experience of Snape to know being ignored was definitely better when Snape was in a temper, and wisely didn't call any further attention to himself. Snape went storming out at luncheon, though not, Harry noted, before checking to make sure he wouldn't run into Tonks, who was safely facing the other direction in the kitchen and never noticed a grown man tiptoeing past.

 

 

Sirius howled with laughter that night when Harry told him. Even Regulus chuckled, from where he stood in the yard trying to catch fireflies in a jar. He brought the jar back to show Lyall, who smiled sleepily in his chair and hummed along with the wireless playing from the porch.

'God, that's good stuff,' Sirius chortled, wiping his streaming eyes. 'I can't believe he tried to give you the talk.'

'He said he's going to get me a book. And to ask you any questions I have.'

Sirius sprawled in the rain-dampened grass on his elbows, tipping his head back to catch the last of the dying light. 'I sincerely hope you do. But I just as sincerely hope you ask him anyway, because I desperately want to know how he'll try and twist out of it.' He began to laugh again, and let himself fall flat on his back to have it out. 'So he's crushing on Tonksie, eh? That'll be a romance for the ages.'

'Don't make fun of him,' Harry said, giving his guardian a nudge with his bare foot. He caught a firefly of his own as it alighted on his knuckle, and he turned his hand as it crawled along his skin, lighting its tail end fitfully.

'Making fun of Snape is my favourite past time, and Moony never lets me--' Sirius's laughter died. Harry swallowed drily.

'Never let me,' Sirius finished quietly, a long moment later.

'Are you really worried about this tournament?' Harry asked, after a while. They were getting practised at letting such moments pass unmentioned.

Sirius snorted. 'Yeah,' he said, 'for all the good it does. Dumbledore's right, you're right, everyone's bloody right, but so am I, you know. Might as well hang out a big sign in that Muggle light-up stuff--'

'Neon,' Harry filled in absently.

'Yeah. I dunno, Harry. I worry about all of it. I'm no good at worrying. That was Moony's skill, never mine.'

Two Moonys in one night. Harry considered his godfather, and ventured a bit in return. 'I miss him, too,' he said.

Without looking, Sirius put out his hand. Harry took it.

'I'd be mad without you,' Sirius said then, stilted and almost too soft to hear.

'Me, too.'

'Your dad was like that, too. He was there for me. When I ran away from home, when I left Reg behind. I knew what I was leaving him to, and I... I convinced myself he'd make it out all right, that they wouldn't do to him what they'd done to me. I'm not that good a person, really. James, he'd just look the other way, or sneak a bottle of his dad's Ogden's up to our room. Moony was the only one who'd ever tell me off. I hardly know how to be me, without them there making me better.' He cleared his throat roughly. 'I know I'm a bear to live with, but I'm not ungrateful. You make me better, too.'

'You're not a bear.' Harry rolled his head to smile. 'You're a dog with a big ego, if you think you're a bear.'

'Oi,' Sirius retorted, and, as prompted, turned himself into Padfoot. A moment later Harry had a lapful of shaggy dog slobbering all over him, and then it was a wrestle, and then it was a chase as Padfoot sped off with Harry's glasses. Harry hurtled after him complaining of having to clean slobber off them. And then the sword decided enough was enough, and left its hook on the porch to attach itself to Harry's back, and Harry tripped headlong into a puddle. He had to pick himself out of it unaided, too, because everyone else was too busy laughing at him.

By the time the stars shone in the night sky and Dobby came to fetch them for pudding, all was well again. At least for the time being, and that, Harry thought, was quite well enough to be getting on with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for joining me on this long journey! More to come in the next fic, _The Labyrinth_ , which will start posting in May.


End file.
